


The Shrouded Throne

by Iturbide



Series: Chrobin Week [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Blood, Death, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Politics, Romance, Slow Build, Violence, War, because I can never just launch something with pre-established relationships, no they have to build from scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-01-18 02:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12379347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iturbide/pseuds/Iturbide
Summary: Civil war rages in Plegia as the heart of the Grimleal faith and the usurper of the crown battle for control of the nation.  When the conflict intensifies and begins to spill across the halidom's borders, the prince of Ylisse stumbles across a curious young woman looking to end the unrest once and for all -- but the Plegian tactician hides many secrets, and the more Chrom discovers, the more deeply entangled he becomes.





	1. Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> ~~BECAUSE YES, IN FACT, I DO NEED STILL MORE AUs. WHY DO YOU ASK?~~
> 
> Halfway through the next chapter of my monster the prompt list for Chrobin Week 2017 went up and I was immediately floored by the need to do this. While I had wanted to do a branching story, taking a single concept and seeing how it diverged, I ran into some setbacks in finding time to write, so this version is going to be somewhat delayed. I'm still determined to see it finished, but it's probably not all going to be during Chrobin Week proper, so bear with me on the delays. ;v;
> 
> And as always, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Enjoy!

“I can’t condone this.”

Robin could hear the edge in her own voice, and for once did nothing to soften it as she held Chrom’s gaze. Several months of taking such care with her demeanor, of measuring every word and gesture under the Shepherds’ watchful eyes, of affecting an air of pleasant calm outside of combat and thoughtful gravity within -- all of it wiped away with this one sharp remark. 

But if the prince seemed surprised, he gave no indication. His brow only furrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest and squared his stance. “No.”

“Captain, we know almost _nothing_ about our enemy or the surrounding terrain,” she stressed. “Sending our forces in blind only invites disaster. If we take the time to scout the area and watch the enemy’s activity, we’ll have a far higher likelihood of success and at significantly lower risk--”

“They have hostages,” Chrom snapped. 

“All the more reason not to rush in with drawn blades. They might well threaten their prisoners to force us back or kill them outright if they feel cornered. We _need_ to devise a focused strategy--”

“People’s _lives_ are at stake!” the prince snarled. “Every moment we waste is a moment they’re left in fear. I don’t know how things are done in Plegia, but here in Ylisse we don’t abandon people to suffer.”

The words cut deep, leaving a chilling pall of silence over the troop. The tactician felt her face pale, her hands curling into shaky fists as she hid them within her sleeves. “We’re going in,” Chrom finished. “That’s an order.”

Robin bowed her head, staring at the toes of her boots as she fought to still the tremors running through her. “As you command,” she muttered.

The tactician heard him draw his blessed blade from its sheath, saw its faint glow arc through the gloom before leveling on the bandit stronghold. “Move out,” he said, his low voice leaving no further room for argument. While the Shepherds rushed to comply, Robin lifted the hood of her coat, drawing her tome from the inner pocket as they crossed the hazy grounds and dispatched the handful of guards on patrol before they could raise the alarm. 

Crowding through the battered doors of the abandoned fort, Robin’s heart sank. While the exterior had seen better days, the interior was in remarkably good repair: no holes in the ceiling or gaps in the stonework, no crumbling walls or impassable corridors...gods if they had to search the whole of this stronghold--

No. Stop. Focus on the facts.

The entry hall was nearly dark, a few sputtering torches offering meager light to get her bearings. Several passages branched off the main room, moving deeper into the fortress; on either side of the entrance, she could see stairs spiraling out of sight, one up to the next floor and one down to the dungeons below.

“Alright,” the tactician muttered, drumming her fingers along the spine of her spellbook. “Pair off. Partner with someone skilled in a different weapon from your own: if one of you finds yourself at a disadvantage, your partner should be able to help. If at all possible, avoid combat; should that prove impossible, make sure you have a vulnerary on hand, and be ready to retreat if you find yourself in danger. Kellam, cover Miriel and head downstairs, see if they’re holding the hostages there; Gaius, go with them in case there are locks to be picked. Virion, this will be our escape route in case things get out of hand, so take up take up a defensible position -- off the ground, if you can manage it -- and cover this room with your partner. Everyone else, spread out, and keep your guard up.”

The Shepherds turned to their captain, and she felt a bitter pang at that sudden lack of trust. A day ago, they would have taken her order as readily as Chrom’s. But the prince gave a curt nod, and the rest of his soldiers split off in groups of two and four, vanishing into the dark until only Robin, Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick remained. “What should I do?” the princess whispered, tugging gently on the tactician’s sleeve. 

“It would be best if you stayed here,” Robin murmured. “It would be impossible to find someone in distress, given the circumstances. If there’s trouble, the Shepherds will be coming back here, so you’ll be able to take care of them immediately when they arrive.”

“Stay with her, Frederick,” the prince ordered. As the great knight saluted, Chrom moved toward the stairs leading to the second story...and the tactician turned to follow, her heart leaden in her chest--

Something caught her sleeve. Glancing back, she found the cleric beside her, and mustered up the best smile she could manage. “What is it?” 

“I’m really sorry about my stupid brother,” Lissa mumbled. “Gods, I can’t believe he _said that,_ he’s really gonna regret it -- b-but I know he didn’t mean it like that, so…”

“Are you coming?” the prince called. 

“I suppose I am,” Robin sighed, patting the princess’ fingers gently before moving up the dark steps, pulling her coat close to prevent the hem from rustling on the stones as she felt her way along the curving wall. Peering out into the hall at the top of the stairs, she took stock of the closed doors filing down the passage, straining to hear any warning sound--

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you.” 

She stiffened at the unexpected remark, casting a sharp look at Chrom. “Is now _really_ the best time, Captain?” she breathed.

“I’d rather not let bad blood linger,” he muttered, stepping out into the corridor. “Especially in a situation like this.”

“And I’d much rather survive the night,” the tactician shot back, following silently in his wake with her tome at the ready.

“I’m sure those prisoners feel the same.”

The sharp reminder made her flinch, and she thanked the gods that the prince could not see it from his position ahead of her. “Then we should make haste,” she muttered.

“Do you take issue with my orders?” he growled. 

“Does it matter?” she asked. “We’re here now. It’s a bit late for complaints, and I don’t have time to dwell on hurt feelings. We can talk when we’re finished here, now _please_ focus on the task at hand.”

Chrom whirled, catching Robin’s wrist in a painful visegrip. “If you have a problem, _say it._ ”

She met his eye coldly. “Let go of me, Captain.”

They glared at one another for another moment before the prince finally released her, tightening his hold on his sword hilt as he straightened. “Can I still trust you to watch my back?” he demanded. 

A thin smile cut across her face as she bowed her head, her stomach twisting at the implication of those words. “Of course.”

As Chrom turned and started back up the hall, a sound caught her attention. Glancing to the nearest door…

A chill went through her. “Step lightly, Captain,” she breathed. 

Robin heard him turn and gestured toward the gap, pointing to the snoring rogue tossing on his cot beyond. “How many are there?” he whispered. 

“I couldn’t say,” she murmured back, glancing warily up and down the hall. “Probably two to four in this room, and gods know how many more are full. It might be best to pull back for now, cover the stairs, and wait for the others to finish their sweep of the lower floors before attempting an assault here.”

“What if the prisoners are being held up here and the commotion downstairs gets them killed?” the prince snapped. 

“What if the commotion downstairs rouses these brigands and they take _us_ prisoner?” she returned. 

“ _Lives_ are at stake--”

“ _Including yours,_ ” she stressed, her voice low in the uncomfortable quiet. “Keep your voice down--”

“The fuck’s goin’ on out there?”

The tactician froze, turning toward the door -- but in the same instant, Chrom grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall. She glanced back as the door opened, thankful that they were hidden behind its swing as the captain turned down another corridor…

...only for a sickening wave of dread to wash over her as the prince ran headlong into an armed rogue.

The man reeled back, scrabbling for his weapon. “Intruders!!” he bellowed, hefting his axe in the instant before Chrom’s blade cut him down. Too late, though: she could hear movement from the other rooms, bandits leaping from their cots, gathering weapons from their bedsides with the grate of steel on stone. The captain cursed under his breath, pulling her down the passage and through the first open door without so much as glancing inside. 

For an instant, everything seemed to freeze. She stared around the room, taking in the men gathered around the assorted tables, the odd collection of dice and bones, the small stacks of coins alongside the gamblers...and focused in on the weapons: a javelin resting beside the man nearest the door, two swords strapped to the sides of the rogues on opposite ends of the room, a bow and quiver leaning against the far wall, two axes wedged into the scarred wood by players’ seats, and one hammer propped against the side of an occupied chair.

The lancer posed the greatest threat. Flinging her arm out, the magic circles blazed around her before the wind whipped through the room, upending the heavy wooden table with one fierce gust. In the next instant she leapt forward, drawing her silver sword and dispatching the man with a swift slice across his throat as he struggled to free himself. 

She heard Chrom’s voice behind her but paid no heed, darting back as the nearest fighter swept up his hammer from its place at his side -- and even as she did, the prince rushed past her, cutting beneath the man’s guard as he raised his weapon. Firing off another gust as a myrmidon crossed blades with the captain, she pushed the man back just far enough for Chrom to find an opening to cut him down. 

A flurry of movement. 

“Chrom!” she called, backpedaling away from the second swordsman bearing down on her even as she summoned up another spell. The prince moved without hesitation, cutting her attacker down with a fierce swing as her next spell arced around him, slicing through the chinks in the enemy’s rough-hewn plate before darting forward to deliver a finishing blow. Turning back, she watched as Chrom traded blows with the final fighter, deftly parrying the swift hatchet-strikes while she readied another spell -- and as the axe-wielder lifted his weapon, the wind knocked him off-balance just long enough for the prince to cut him down. 

Leaning against the edge of an overturned table, Robin fought to catch her breath. Gods, what else could go wrong tonight--

Something moved overhead. 

Lunging forward, the circles already blazing to light around her, she saw an archer crouched in the rafters, his bow nocked and aimed toward the prince. 

_“Chrom!!”_

The gust howled through the musty air, lifting the bowman from his perch and slamming him into the ceiling before he plummeted to the ground.

But it could not drown out the captain’s shout as he fell, the arrow lodged deep in his calf.

***

Pain seared through Chrom’s leg as it gave way beneath him. He barely managed to keep himself from crashing to the floor, and only then by burying Falchion’s point in the stones and bracing himself against the sword’s length. As blood began to seep into the cloth pinned to his skin, he fumbled for the arrow--

“Don’t touch it.”

His hand twitched as slender fingers caught his own. Lifting his head, he found Robin kneeling at his side, the expression beneath her hood set in a troubled frown. “If you pull it out, you risk making it worse,” she murmured. 

“What do I do, then?” he hissed.

“Hold still.”

“Easily said,” the prince scoffed, his hand tightening convulsively on her fingers before she guided his grip up to his sword hilt. Pressing his forehead to the pommel, he tensed against the inevitable pain...

Though her hands were gentle, he could feel them shaking as she touched his leg. “How bad is it?” he asked. 

“It’s deep,” she replied softly, digging into her pockets. “I can’t remove it easily, and a vulnerary won’t do much with the arrow still in place. You need to retreat.” Chrom cursed, wincing as her hand settled close to the wound and pressed down hard. “This will hurt.”

He appreciated the warning. Bracing himself, he felt the shaft move under his skin, bit back a cry -- and heard the arrow snap. He watched through a slitted eye as she tossed the broken end aside and looped a tightly wound handkerchief around the remnants of the shaft; lifting his leg, she tied it securely around his shin before settling back. “I didn’t know you were a medic,” he muttered. 

“I’ve just enough knowledge of field aid to get by,” she replied distractedly. “That should hold until--”

A sudden crash made them both jump. Looking toward the door, he saw an axe lodged in the wood, jerking back and forth and leaving a splintered hole when it finally retreated. The bar wouldn’t hold long, at this rate. “Come on,” she muttered, gesturing to the far side of the room. “There’s another door, if we move quickly we might be able to escape through there.” Struggling to his feet with her help, he stepped forward…

His leg buckled under him. Only Robin’s arms around him kept him upright as he staggered. Gods, he couldn’t even walk, let alone wield his sword in this state. “Go,” he hissed. 

“What?”

“I’ll hold them off here. Get out and get help.”

“I’m not leaving you here--”

“I can’t walk and I can’t fight,” he muttered. “It’ll get us both captured or killed if we stay together. You have to go--”

“I am _not leaving you here._ ”

He started as she pulled his arm firmly over her shoulders. He hesitated to lean on her -- but when she began to march toward the far side of the room, he had little choice but to hobble alongside her, and she held strong under his weight. As she pressed her ear to the door, he glanced back the way they’d come, his gut twisting at the growing hole and the mounting shouts from beyond the room. 

“This way,” she murmured, pushing the door open. Nodding slightly, he moved with her into the passage beyond. His heart pounded as he scanned the hall ahead, trying to hurry and silently cursing the wound that slowed them both. Gods, what a mess he’d landed them in...

Something moved in the dark. 

Robin said nothing, shifting toward the nearest side corridor. Chrom struggled to keep pace, trying to shield Falchion’s glow behind him--

“Hey!”

The coarse shout made his chest tighten. Lifting his sword, he saw the magic circles blaze to light around them, felt a gust swirl through his cape and whip down the passage, tearing through the bandits’ ranks. But it did not stop their charge, only slowed it, and they bore down fast as the gale rose again, howling as it cut through the stagnant air, shredding their skin and armor; one fell, but the others trampled over him, bearing down on their position while the prince struggled to find a steady stance braced against her--

“Hang back, Captain.”

Chrom felt her slip out from under his arm. His balance faltered, and he stumbled against the wall while the tactician darted forward, the light of her spell flashing across the length of her silver blade as she cut through the enemy ranks. The dark made it nearly impossible to follow the flow of battle, but he heard the ring of steel, the crash of bodies dropping to the stones, the hum of magic giving way to the wind’s shriek…

...and finally only one figure remained standing, her face shadowed under her hood as she picked her way back to his side. “Are you alright?” she asked. He managed a nod as Robin pulled his arm over her shoulders again, navigating the sprawl of bodies in the cramped passage. Keeping his eyes trained ahead, he saw a brief flash of movement -- and the instant he did, the circles flashed to life again, the gale tearing down the hall, lifting the rogue off his feet, and slamming him into the wall behind him. He heard the body tumble, the sound fading rapidly even as they hobbled forward...and the prince breathed a weary sigh of relief as they came to another steep flight of stairs leading down through the dark. 

Navigating to the bottom was a grueling task on one good leg. Leaning heavily on the tactician as they wound their way down, he heard her breath straining as they stumbled at last from the stairwell, her shoulders shaking under his arm. “I-I need a moment,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I just need to ca-atch my breath…”

“This way,” he murmured, gesturing down the murky passage and toward the nearest door. Hobbling a few steps further, he tilted his sword down, checking the reflection of the room beyond...and seeing no sign of the enemy’s presence, he nodded, moving through the gap beside her. He leaned gratefully back against the wall as she helped him to sit, glancing toward her as she sagged beside him--

In the poor lamplight, he could see blood dripping from under her hood. Still more stained her shirt, spreading across the pale fabric rather than spattered from the fight above. “You’re hurt.”

“Only minor wounds,” she muttered, swiping a hand beneath her hood. Her fingers glistened when she pulled them back, shielding them a moment too late from his sight. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Say what?” she scoffed. “It’s not as though either of us can do anything about it. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner Lissa can patch us up. And yell at us.”

“Why ‘us’?” he grumbled. “You’re not the one who got us into this mess.”

“I did get you shot, though.”

“There was an archer hidden in the rafters. How can you blame yourself for that?”

“I should have paid more attention, kept him from getting up there in the first place and giving him the advantage. I saw the bow and quiver, but I let the lancer with the javelin take precedence and lost track of the archer entirely. And not only could I not prevent him from firing, the spell blew his arrow on a course to strike you.”

Chrom gaped at her for a moment. “Do you listen to yourself when you talk?”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re blaming yourself for taking out the closest threat -- and the one that had an advantage over both of us -- and for deflecting a potentially fatal blow into a temporarily laming one.”

“I’m blaming myself for ignoring the ultimately greater threat that might yet cost both our lives if I can’t keep my mind together.”

The strain in her voice gave him pause. Reaching out, he lay a hand gently on Robin’s shoulder, frowning at the tremors running through her. “You should go,” he insisted.

“Not without you.”

“This place is defensible, you can get the Shepherds and bring them back--”

“ _No,_ Captain _._ ”

“Robin--”

_“I’m not abandoning you!”_

He heard the echo of his own heated words in her sob. And the heavy silence that settled over the room in its wake choked the breath from his lungs. 

She scrubbed at her face beneath the raised cowl, frustration and misery painfully evident in her sharp movements. “You already think me some monste-er, some Plegian heathen who cares nothi-i-ing for the lives of others -- I won’t leave so-omeone else behind, I wo- _on’t…_ ”

“...who did you leave behind?” he asked, his voice weak in his own ears. 

“ _Everyone,_ ” she whispered, curling her arms around her knees. “My friends, my _family..._ I left _all_ of them -- I left all of _Plegia_ behind, to do _wha-_ at? To save the halidom’s people, whi-ile men and women are _dying_ every day because I ha-aven’t secured any kind of help yet.”

A leaden weight dropped to the pit of his stomach. “Robin…”

“You think I _wanted_ to leave them behind?” she asked, her voice breaking on the words. “You thi-ink it was my _choice?_ I saw _no other way_ \-- when the fighting broke out, my uncle risked his own life to get me out of the capital because no matter...no matter _how much_ I wanted to stay and help them, I _couldn’t_ on my own. I thought fleeing to find aid was the only way to save them, and now people are _dying_ because I couldn’t do it myself -- I wasn’t _strong_ enough to -- but I _have_ to believe that fewer will die if I succeed on this craven mission than if I’d been killed when the coup began. ...I couldn’t...I-I couldn’t live with myself if that might have spared them such suffering. “

She sniffled thickly, swiping again at her face as the prince shifted closer, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought...the people that had been captured might be hurt or dying, and I wanted to save them so badly that...I took the idea of waiting as unwillingness to help them at all. I don’t think you’re a monster. I was just angry, and I didn’t even think about what I was saying. Or how it might hurt.”

“That’s what Lissa said,” the tactician sniffed.

“When?”

“Before we wandered into this mess. She told me you didn’t mean it.”

“...I’m still sorry I said it.”

“She told me you would be. ...though I think she meant you’d come to regret it after she gave you a scolding.”

“That sounds about right,” Chrom chuckled. 

She glanced over at him, and he swore he saw a weak smile beneath her cowl as she levered herself upright and offered her hand back down to him. “We should go,” she said. “Together.”

He grinned back, gripping her wrist and struggling up to his feet with her aid. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he hobbled alongside her as she moved to the door, glancing up and down the hall before striking off into the winding maze of corridors. He hoped that she had more of an idea of where they needed to go than he did; every turn only felt more disorienting…

Robin paused, holding her hand up to stop him. Tightening his grip on Falchion’s hilt, he narrowed his eyes at the shadowy figure in the dark ahead, determined to do _something_ this time if it came to blows again--

“Captain?” a familiar voice called.

His head came up. “Sully?” 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been!?” the cavalier demanded, marching up to them with her lance in hand. “We’ve been goin’ out of our damn minds! You don’t just run off alone, the _fuck’s_ wrong with you tonight!?”

“Spare me the lecture, I’ll be getting enough of an earful from Frederick and Lissa,” Chrom sighed, relaxing his stance and leaning heavily against Robin as she started forward again.

“...wait, why’s your sister gonna be on you?” Sully asked. 

“Because I’ve been a royal jackass.”

“Did everyone else make it back?” the tactician asked as the cavalier squinted at them through the poor light. 

“...yeah -- what the fuck happened to you two?”

“I got myself shot by being an idiot,” the prince replied before Robin could draw a breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

“It’s just around the corner -- we’ve been holdin’ the entrance waiting for you to show up,” Sully said, jerking her thumb back the way she’d come before dragging Chrom’s other arm over her shoulders. “ _Ruffles if you shoot me I swear I’ll shove my boot so far up your ass it kicks your teeth out,_ ” she snarled, and the prince choked back a laugh as the archer in the rafters fumbled his bow and nearly fell. 

The Shepherds posted through the entry hall cheered as the captain hobbled into view. Most of the battered troops had already fallen back to take the prisoners rescued from the dungeons to safety, but Frederick oversaw the orderly exit of the rear guard into the quiet woods beyond. And in spite of her own wounds, Robin stayed by his side, helping him on to safety. 

***

After their nearly disastrous assault on the bandit fortress, the Shepherds spent the better part of a week camped beyond the nearest town, tending their wounded and fending off the few rogues that remained in the area. Robin thanked the gods for what few blessings she could count: most of those injured had only suffered minor cuts and bruises, easily tended by Lissa’s magic, and even the worst of the wounded were recovering well under the princess’ care following treatment by the village doctor. 

The injuries that the tactician had ignored in their escape had at last caught up with her, and she resigned herself to confinement in an infirmary cot. At least she wasn’t alone in her misery, though: Chrom was consigned to the bed beside her, and both of them submitted to Lissa’s care with a relative minimum of grumbling. The prince’s leg wound was healing well, though he still struggled to walk unaided (and often enough incurred his sister’s wrath when he tried, though that somehow did not deter him), and it seemed as though he would make a full recovery with adequate rest. 

She was, at the very least, grateful for that. At least her mistake had not cost him too dearly. 

Robin had been trying to find a way to apologize. Had spent hours mulling over the words, over how to express her guilt, her regret, her shame. But for all her careful planning, when it came to actually facing the prince...she hesitated, an old fear gripping her heart at the thought of what he might say, how he might react -- how he might not forgive her for these mistakes. 

But, she reminded herself as Lissa bustled out of the infirmary on a supply run, Chrom was not that sort of person. He would understand. Steeling her nerves, she drew in a breath, turning to the man in the next cot. “Captain--”

“Are you going to say ‘I told you so’?”

She stopped, bewilderment replacing her resolve. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you were right,” he sighed. “About how we should have waited before attacking, about falling back from the upper floor, about...everything, really. And I wouldn’t listen.”

A faint smile crept across her face. “Well, it sounds to me like you learned a lesson from this. And it turned out alright this time,” she noted. 

“ _This_ time,” he stressed, “we were lucky. It could have been a lot worse. And if I’d listened to you from the outset, you might not have gotten hurt.”

She stared at him for a moment, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean, _I_ might not have gotten hurt? _You’re_ the one who got shot in the leg because I didn’t do my duty well enough.”

“You made the best of the bad situation I landed us in. And then you stayed to pull me out of the fire. ...you’re a hero.”

Robin felt her face begin to warm and prayed it wasn’t as visible as she feared. “Hardly,” she mumbled. “To be honest, I was thinking while we were still trapped that...if this were a story, it was much too early for the hero to fall. So I knew I had to get you out.”

“Some hero I am,” he scoffed. “Rushing headlong into danger, ignoring sound advice, losing my head...if anyone’s a hero here, it’s you.”

She looked down at her hands, folding them on the blankets before her. “I’m no hero,” she murmured.

“You are,” he insisted. “You came here to secure aid for Plegia, and you’ve been fighting to keep the people of Ylisse safe ever since you arrived. For all that you focus on strategy and tactics, your ultimate goal is to keep everyone safe, not to secure victory. If that’s not the mark of a true hero, then...I don’t know what is.”

Mustering a faint smile, the tactician turned her gaze back on the prince, trying to ignore the warmth that stirred in her chest at the sight of his earnest grin. “...thank you, Captain,” she managed. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, and she wondered what else she should be saying. Or if she should be saying anything. But something about the awkward tension in the air seemed to demand a break--

“I’ve been thinking,” Chrom mumbled. “About what you said. While we were trying to get out of the fort.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” she apologized. “I’m sorry for--”

“No, no, don’t apologize. I deserved it. Gods, I deserved worse, after how I treated you,” he muttered. “But I was thinking that once Lissa clears us to travel, we’ll break camp and head back to Ylisstol. And I can try to arrange an audience for you with my sister.”

Her heart leapt up into her throat. It took a great deal of coaxing to force it back so that she could speak again. “Why would you do that?” she whispered. 

“Well, you said you came here to get help for Plegia, didn’t you?” the prince replied. “So what better way than by asking the Exalt herself?”

“N-no, I mean...why would you do that for me? After I nearly got you killed, you’re not obligated to help me at all--”

“It’s not about obligation. And it’s my fault I got shot,” he added. “But you’re my friend. If there’s anything I can do to ease your troubles, you only need to ask.”

She felt the heat creeping back into her cheeks as she folded her hands in her lap. “...are we, though?” she asked. “Friends?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You barely know me,” she protested.

“I know you’re a good person,” he replied. “I know that you care about people, for all that you try to hide it by keeping everyone at arm’s length. I know you put everything you have into anything you get yourself mixed up in, and even when it gets you hurt you don’t even slow down. I know that even though you always seem relaxed, you’re carrying a heavy burden, and it weighs on you. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have taken that pigheaded remark to heart.”

She hadn’t realized how much she gave away. “Have I always been that transparent?” she muttered. 

“Not in the least,” Chrom chuckled. “I feel like I know you better after landing us in that mess.” She cast a wry look in his direction, noting with some small measure of satisfaction that he seemed to have realized on his own how bad that sounded. “But even before that, I knew that you were kind. And thoughtful. And that I enjoyed our time together.”

“...are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth?” the tactician asked slowly. 

The prince stopped, clearly mulling over the last few things he’d said. And she saw the color begin to rise in his face as the implications dawned on him. “...well. That would explain a lot.”

Her brow furrowed as he turned toward her, slinging his legs over the edge of his cot and hobbling across the thankfully narrow gap between their beds to sit on the edge of hers. If she weren’t afraid that the rickety contraption would capsize, she might have joined him. Or fled. Both seemed reasonable at present. “What did it sound like I was saying?” he asked. 

The urge to flee began to intensify. “Captain, are you feeling alright? Should I call Lissa?” 

“What? No -- no, I’m fine.”

“You’re acting very strangely, for being ‘fine.’”

“I could say the same to you. So what did it sound like I was saying?”

“It wouldn’t be hard to misconstrue romantic intentions in such a carelessly-worded overture of friendship,” she mumbled, folding her fingers tightly over her right hand. 

“And what if...it wasn’t a mistaken impression?”

“I’m not delusional, Captain,” she replied flatly. 

“I didn’t say you were. I’m asking: what if you weren’t reading too deeply into it?”

“Then I’d have to pinch myself, because obviously I’m dreaming and I should probably jar myself back to reality before I say something I’ll regret in my sleep,” she muttered. He made a thoughtful noise, and when she chanced a glance up at him, he was looking at her intently. “W-what?” she prompted. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Pushing up her coat sleeve, Robin gave her arm a firm, surprisingly painful pinch. 

Unfortunately, rather than silence and the princess’ soft humming as she bustled around the infirmary tent in the hazy afternoon light, she only heard Chrom stifle a laugh in his hand. “Did it work?” he asked. 

“Maybe I need to try harder,” she grumbled as she rubbed the sore spot. 

“Or maybe you should just answer my question,” he chuckled. “Can I?”

Something fluttered in her stomach at the idea, the queasy sort of elation that came with the anticipation of something frighteningly new. But she nodded, running her fingers nervously through her pale hair without meeting his eye. “I-I suppose you could. If you wanted to,” she mumbled. 

He shifted slightly closer on the edge of the cot, brushing a few stray locks of hair away from her face with the tips of his fingers. As he cupped her cheek and brushed his lips across hers, she felt him smiling -- and a tingling warmth shivered through her at that touch, however brief and unbelievable it might have felt. 

“How was that?” Chrom murmured as he settled back. 

“... … … I might not need to try quite so hard,” she managed, scrubbing at her flushed face. 

The prince’s laughter only made her cheeks feel warmer still as she pulled her cowl up to hide her blush. But as he reached out and brushed his fingers across her knuckles, light spilled into the tent with Lissa’s return. The cleric’s humming fell immediately silent as she took in the scene...and huffed, marching over to swat at her brother’s arm. “Chrom! What are you doing!?”

“...talking to Robin,” he decided after a suspiciously long moment’s thought. 

“Right,” his sister replied, rolling her eyes. “Get back in your own bed, you stupid jerk.”

“I’m going!” he laughed, obediently hopping off the edge of the tactician’s cot and over to his own. But she was glad for the cover of her hood when he winked at her over his sister’s head, and the shy rush of warmth returned in force to color her face anew. 


	2. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon arriving back in Ylisstol, Chrom is quick to make good on his word to his tactician, paving the way toward relief for the halidom's neighbor; however, peace cannot be achieved through help from Ylisse alone. With plans in the making to seek military aid from Ferox, the prince coerces Robin to join him for a bit of sparring practice to keep him in fighting form -- and in working through their miscommunications, they begin to find mutual understanding...and even acceptance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Wow look who's super late_
> 
> Experimenting in writing is something I've always loved to do. Ever since I first started, I enjoyed playing with perspective and stream-of-consciousness, narrative voice and how much can be conveyed through a character's perception (or lack thereof). Getting to play with something like written communication and individuality in writing styles was a real treat this chapter ~~even if it doesn't work on mobile~~ , and I hope it comes across well. 
> 
> Some darker themes begin to subtly make their appearance in this chapter, so additional tags will be added from here. ~~Also as a warning, Henry cannot write for shit and Robin's penmanship could use some work, so translation notes are included at the end.~~ And as always, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Sorry for the delays, but I hope you enjoy!

By week’s end, the Shepherds had broken camp and set out for the halidom’s capital. The journey itself felt oddly relaxed, considering the frantic pace they’d kept since she arrived in Ylisse: rather than a double-time march that left even the best of them exhausted by nightfall, they practically whiled their way along the roads, and spent time talking and laughing around the fires each evening. Though she rarely spoke during the animated conversations unless directly called upon, Robin found that she enjoyed the warm camaraderie between the Shepherds...which, to her surprise, they had begun to share with her, in turn.

And though it still seemed entirely unreal, the captain’s frequent companionship was something she was beginning to look forward to.

She struggled with the idea that his attention might be more than a jape or some penance for a lost wager. It was true that she’d harbored a quiet fondness for the Ylissean prince since their first meeting, when the fraught border crossing left her collapsed in the fields outside Southtown, and Chrom and his sister chanced across her and chose to aid the foreigner in their lands. Gods, his kind smile when he’d helped her to her feet had caught her entirely off-guard...but she’d entertained no illusions about what could exist between them, and had brushed aside that foolish affection in favor of more important matters. It had been enough to know they shared a bond of trust as comrades in arms.

Having something more...still seemed too good to be true.

And yet, while the prince spent rather more of his time riding behind Frederick or Sully than he clearly wanted, he invariably sought her out when he was granted leave to stretch his legs. They spoke of inconsequential things: the weather, the changing season, the journey...and given all that the tactician had weighing on her mind, the distraction from such heavy thoughts proved a welcome respite.

(When they found themselves alone, though, Chrom did not hesitate to sneak a kiss, and the warmth of that touch and the subtle curve of his lips as he smiled made her face burn whenever she thought of it _gods why was it so hard to stop thinking of it._ )

Their return to Ylisstol helped to draw Robin’s attention back to more pressing thoughts. She’d spent little more than a day in the halidom’s capital since her arrival, and had wondered then over the blue-grey stonework covered in ivy, the narrow window boxes busting with flowers, the slate rooftops covered in leaves from trees growing around the city; while the plants had withered and gone dormant with the passing of autumn into winter (which had been a beautiful sight, unlike anything she’d seen in the deserts of Plegia), she still enjoyed the view as they marched up the main road and on through the palace gates.

As soon as the prince relieved his Shepherds of their duties, his sister took hold of his arm and dragged him up the castle steps -- likely to the infirmary for a full examination. Shaking her head sympathetically, the tactician made her way into the garrison with the rest of the troops, slipping into the first unoccupied room she chanced across and closing the door securely behind her. She considered barring it for good measure…but finally decided against it, for fear of arousing suspicion should someone check the door. Sitting at the desk below the window, she removed a bundle of parchment from the inner pocket of her coat, smoothing the folded pages before taking up a quill from the edge of the desk.

We’ve made it back to Ylisstol. It sounds like we’ll be spending some time here, so hopefully I’ll be able to petition an audience with the Exalt before our next mission.

As she prepared to set her pen aside, fresh ink bled into the parchment from an unseen source.

Du yu think shyll help?

Shouldn’t you be working?

Tharja yeld at me and told my tu go away.

What were you doing?

Nuthing! I waz traying tu help muv suplays. It’s not may falt shy wakd intu a floting box.

Did you warn her that you were going to help?

No response. Shaking her head fondly, Robin found herself smiling as she dipped her quill into the ink again.

How are things going there?

Unkl got alot ov suplays for evrywun yesturday so wy’r duing betr now. But the storm stopd tu and now yor dad and Gangrel ar bak tu fayting. Unkl’s evakyuating anuthr blok tuday.

How much of the city is even still standing?

Not alot. Wy had a skeyr last nayt wen wun ov Gangrel’s men nokd on the dor, but Unkl sent him on and I dont think he saw anything.

I’m glad you’re okay, Henry.

I ryly mis yu Robin.

I miss you, too. I’ll write again when I have more news. Try not to get into trouble.

As she gently blotted the page, a knock sounded on the door behind her. “Who is it?” she called, hurriedly replacing the quill beside the ink well and tucking the parchment back in her coat.

“It’s me,” Chrom’s voice called back. “Are you busy?”

She rose from her chair, opening the door and stepping out to greet him. “I’ve just finished a bit of work, actually.”

“Do you ever stop working?” the prince chuckled, leaning against the frame. 

“When I sleep,” she shrugged. 

“Have I ever seen you sleep?”

“We were quarantined together for a week.”

“True,” he grinned. “Though I don’t remember ever seeing you _sleep._ ”

“Is there something I can help you with, Captain?” she asked, fighting back a smile of her own. 

“There is,” he agreed. “You can come with me.”

Even as she drew breath to inquire further, Chrom turned and started down the corridor. His limp, while not quite as noticeable as it had been on the march, was still clearly present whenever the put weight on his leg, and he made subtle use of the wall beside them as he headed toward the entry hall. “Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see,” he replied, winking at her over his shoulder. Rolling her eyes, Robin moved to follow, falling into step beside him as they entered the garrison’s common room...and she was not surprised to feel him lean surreptitiously against her as they left the barracks and headed into the castle, up the winding stairs, and down the stone passages lined with clear glass windows.

The further they traveled, the more nervous she became, her pace slowing as she glanced at the prince beside her. “Where exactly are we going?” she repeated insistently. 

“Remember how I said I’d try to get you an audience with my sister?”

...actually, she had forgotten. Kind though the words had been, she had expected that they were only a thoughtful gesture with no real weight, and so had let the thought slip from her mind. But the reminder froze her steps as she turned to stare at Chrom’s smile. “Did you really…?”

“I did,” he nodded. “She has a break between council meetings and asked me to bring you up.”

She could have hugged him. Considered it seriously for a moment, but finally fought back the urge for fear of what it might imply. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she murmured. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” the prince chuckled. “It’s the least I can do.”

The kiss that grazed her cheek took the tactician by surprise. His arm settled across her shoulders as he guided them on, which only made her face redden -- and when she tried to scrub the heat away, she heard him laugh (a sound that only made the color deepen further). By the time they reached the door at the end of the hall, though, she had mostly managed to collect herself; and when a soft voice responded to Chrom’s knock, a cold prickle of anxiety doused the last of the warmth. The prince opened the room, bowing to Robin as he stepped aside...and she drew in a deep, steadying breath before moving past him. 

Glancing around the cozy parlour, she took in the soothing blue and green decor, admiring the openness afforded the otherwise small space by the windows overlooking the castle gardens. An ornate tea tray and a platter of pastries occupied the table between the plush chairs, lending a curious air of familiarity, rather than formality, to the arrangement. Offering a respectful bow to the woman seated facing the door and the knight standing at parade rest behind her, the tactician drew in another slow breath. This was what she’d come to Ylisse for. Be polite, and stay calm. 

“Please have a seat,” a gentle voice insisted. The woman was smiling as Robin straightened, gesturing toward the chair across the table from her own place. “Thank you, Chrom. I’ll see you at supper?”

“Of course. I’ll see you later, Robin,” he added, patting the tactician’s shoulder encouragingly. She nodded in return, offering a grateful smile as he gave a final parting wave and closed the door behind him. Taking the indicated chair, Robin folded her hands in her lap, marshalling her thoughts into order as the Exalt poured tea for them both from the pot between them. 

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the woman said, holding a cup and saucer out to her guest. Robin took them carefully, smiling as she took a sip of the sweet red brew. “My brother speaks very highly of you, so it’s very nice to meet with you. I am Exalt Emmeryn of House Ylisse, and this is Phila, the captain of the Pegasus Knights.”

“The honor is mine, and I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to see me, Your Grace,” the tactician murmured, inclining her head. “My name is Robin.”

“...Princess Robin of Plegia, I take it.”

She flinched at that address, the cup in her hand freezing halfway to her lips. Glancing up, she saw the knight’s hand on her sword...and the warm, kind smile still present on the Exalt’s face as she raised a hand to pacify her guard. “What gave me away?” Robin asked softly. 

“It was a fortunate guess,” she replied, laughter brightening her words. “Our scouts along the border have been dealing with more Plegian incursions lately, and some of the captured soldiers they’ve questioned spoke of orders to locate the princess. And the increase in such activity only began after your arrival.”

“I apologize for bringing difficulties to the halidom with me,” the tactician said, lowering her cup and saucer to her lap. “And I’m afraid that under the present conditions, I’ve not even a nation to call mine, and no right to claim the title of princess. Robin will suffice, for now.”

“If you insist,” the Exalt agreed. “Rest assured, though, that you have brought far more aid than you have trouble. But Chrom informs me that you seek a way to help your homeland.”

“Indeed,” the tactician nodded. “With each passing day, the situation grows more heated: the in-fighting between factions has left the capital in ruins, and civilians continue to lose their homes and their lives. They are suffering and dying for this war they asked no part of, and pray for help from any quarter. Please, Your Grace...please, I beg your aid for the people of Plegia, the innocent who have done no wrong yet who find their lives at stake thanks to the selfishness of those who have power at their command.”

Her father’s voice whispered coldly in the back of her mind that no royal should ever beg. That it was unbecoming of their station, and made them weak. But still, she bowed her head before the ruler of Ylisse, and prayed to Grima and any other gods who might be listening that her pleas would not fall on deaf ears. Plegia and her people needed more than she could give alone: she had no qualms about bending her knee for their sake. 

The Exalt set her own teacup on the table between them, folding her hands in her lap. “Did you have something in mind?” she asked gently. “I fear that Ylisse does not have a military force capable of offering any substantial aid...and even if it did, considering the history between our nations, it seems inadvisable for the halidom to send an armed force across the border when the situation is already so tense.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” Robin replied. “And I would not think to ask military aid of you for those very reasons. I have several agents in Plegia working to assist the citizenry, evacuating those in the path of the conflict, housing those whose homes have been destroying in the fighting before aiding in their escape from the city. But even once they leave the capital, safety is fleeting at best, since they have nowhere to turn. If they could be allowed entry into Ylisse as refugees of the ongoing crisis, at least until the war is quelled…”

“My, you have thought this through, haven’t you, Your Highness -- Robin,” she amended, lifting a hand apologetically to her mouth. “I believe that something can be arranged.”

The tactician’s head came up, a smile finally brightening her grave expression. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, bowing deeply in her seat. “I fear there is no recompense I can offer you at present, but rest assured that--”

“Please, don’t concern yourself,” the Exalt laughed, waving away Robin’s attempts at reassurance. “You’ve already done quite enough, I would say. You’ve offered an invaluable service to the halidom by taking the role of tactician for the militia, and by keeping my brother safe from harm when he finds himself in trouble. I’ve heard quite the tale about your heroism in your last engagement,” she added (and it took all Robin’s force of will to fight down the warning prickle of heat in her face). “Any further discussion can wait. Though I am curious to know if you have plans to put the conflict to rest without an army.”

“I intend to meet with the khans of Regna Ferox at the first available opportunity,” the tactician explained. “It will require that I take leave of the Shepherds, but…”

“You haven’t told my brother who you are, have you?”

Robin felt a faint pang at that question. “As I said...I have no country to lay claim to. I am not even a princess in title, after abandoning Plegia in such a state. I am nothing more than a tactician. ...I know that...I’ve already asked so much of you, and have no right to request anything more of Your Grace, but...please...don’t speak of this to him.”

“...as you wish,” the Exalt murmured, inclining her head. “But I would recommend that you tell him yourself, soon. There is no benefit to guarding such a secret.”

The tactician saw no reason at all to lay bare her own cowardice, and prove him right about the monster she truly was. But even so, she offered a faint smile. “As you say.”

“Your Grace,” the pegasus knight said, laying a hand on the back of the Exalt’s chair. “The hour grows late. The council will reconvene shortly.”

“Already?” Robin was surprised to hear something like disappointment in her voice. As naturally as the grace and trappings of royalty seemed to suit her, apparently the duties of leadership did not sit easily on anyone. “I do apologize that our audience must be cut so short. Perhaps we could meet again later?”

Startled by the unexpected request, the tactician felt a shy smile touch her face as she smoothed her hair. “I...I would enjoy that, Your Grace,” she agreed. “And I do hope you fare well with the council. It was a pleasure to speak with you,” she added, rising from her chair and offering another low bow. 

“The pleasure has been mine, Robin,” the Exalt beamed, acknowledging the gesture with a nod of her crowned head. “Do take care.”

Slipping from the quiet parlour, the tactician leaned back against the door, pressing a hand to her chest as she breathed a steadying sight. In spite of the unexpected turns, and though her heart still raced, that had gone better than she’d dared imagine. Suddenly she could see hope on Plegia’s horizons. 

And she would not let that opportunity escape. 

***

Chrom hated waiting. 

Ever since he was a child, the main complaint of every tutor and trainer he’d had was that he had no patience to speak of. And try as they might, they’d had little luck in changing that. 

It would have been better if he’d been able to occupy himself with something else. But books rarely held his attention, and Frederick had barred him from doing more than watching the sparring drills he conducted in the garrison’s training ring. The prince could barely even pace to work off his energy, with his leg still bothering him (not that it stopped him from trying, and then stumbling into a wall at intervals when it decided to twinge). 

Was it a good thing for meetings to last so long? Was Emm working on some kind of detailed plan, taking Robin’s request into consideration? Or was it a bad thing, and they were arguing? Not that he’d ever heard Emm do much arguing -- usually she just put her foot down and let the council members bluster themselves hoarse while she stood her ground. Gods, he hoped the tactician wasn’t having to deal with that--

The door to the garrison opened, and the prince was on his feet the instant Robin walked into the common. “How did it go with Emm?” he asked...and mentally kicked himself as the tactician turned a wry look toward him. Could he have made it more obvious that he was waiting for her? 

But she gestured for him to sit, smiling as she joined him. “It went wonderfully,” she replied, a hint of laughter in her voice. “She agreed to grant asylum to Plegian refugees. Until the fighting dies down, they’ll be safe on the Ylissean side of the border -- it’s everything I could have asked for.”

Chrom frowned, leaning his elbows against the table. “No aid to stop the fighting?”

“Oh, no,” the tactician said. “I didn’t ask for military assistance. I don’t imagine that anyone on either side of the border would be happy to see an Ylissean force crossing into Plegia, after the last armed conflict--”

“How will the fighting ever stop, then?” the prince insisted. “You can’t just wait for the two sides to wear each other out, that could take years.” Not to mention the ruin it would leave the country in…

“I know,” Robin agreed. “Which is why I intend to journey north to Regna Ferox now that I’ve appealed to the Exalt. Given their martial prowess, their assistance could prove invaluable in putting the war to rest.”

...that was a sound idea, when he thought about it. “How much do you know about Ferox?”

“They’re fierce warriors who value physical strength over most else. Normally they leave other nations to their wars and focus their attentions on internal matters, but they have been known to forge alliances with their neighbors and lend their might in combat should the need arise.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” he grinned. 

“That’s what a tactician does,” she smiled back. As the Shepherds began to file back into the garrison, Frederick’s latest lecture droning on over their groans of protest, Chrom cast a sly glance across the table. Robin caught his eye, offering a questioning look as he stood and gestured for her to follow -- and while the other troops collapsed into the nearest available seats or started fighting over the water barrel, the prince headed out the door and off to the now quiet training grounds. 

“What are we doing here?” the tactician asked, poking one of the dusty training dummies. 

“If we’re going to be headed for Ferox, I’ll need to be in fighting shape when we arrive,” Chrom chuckled, taking two blunted swords from the barrel by the sparring ring and offering one to her. 

“...I have several objections,” she sighed, rubbing her temple with the tips of her fingers. “One, your sister will have your head _and_ mine if you set back your recovery and I don’t try to stop you. And two, when did I say _we_ were going to Ferox?”

“Well, technically you said _you_ were going to Ferox, but it’s dangerous to make that journey alone. As I recall, we found you collapsed in the middle of a field the last time you were traveling by yourself.” 

Her face went slightly pink at that reminder. “That was different,” she mumbled.

“Prove it, then,” he laughed, offering the sword again. 

“...let me reiterate that this is a terrible idea,” she grumbled, taking the weapon from his hand. “And I refuse to let you over-exert yourself. We’re warming up before we spar.” 

“Fine,” he grinned, making a few practice swings with his own blade. It felt unwieldy compared to Falchion, but he would manage--

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain, but it’s your _leg_ that’s giving you trouble, not your arm.” 

The prince paused, watching as Robin settled on the ground with her sword beside her. Humming softly to herself as she arranged her coat and guards, she stretched one leg straight out, folding the other alongside it and leaning forward to grip her ankle. “What are you doing?”

“Stretching,” she murmured. “You should try it.”

Well, it couldn’t hurt. Lowering himself to sit beside her, he stretched his injured leg out and bent forward--

The sharp twinge made him stop. “Take it easy,” she said. “No need to rush it. You’re still healing.”

“It’s been almost two weeks,” he protested. 

“And if you take care with it and keep getting treatment, it won’t be another fortnight more before you’re in fighting shape again,” she replied, shifting to stretch over her other leg. “But there’s no sense in pushing yourself before you’re ready. It only sets you back.”

He frowned, slowly attempting to mimic her motion again. It still pulled uncomfortably, but he held as best he could...and as she patted his shoulder, he eased up, rubbing his calf as he drew his leg back. “Is this really supposed to help?”

“It should,” she agreed. “If you’re patient and keep at it.”

Well, patience never had been his strong suit. But though he didn’t notice any striking difference, even after she walked him through several more light exercises, he had to admit that it felt somewhat better when he took up his blade again. “We are still going to spar, yes?”

“You’re certainly determined, aren’t you?” she sighed. “Fine. How about some defensive drills? And if you say ‘the best defense is a good offense’ I’m walking straight back into the garrison.”

The words were halfway out of his mouth before he registered what she was saying, and he nearly bit his tongue for how quickly he clamped down on the words. “Alright, then. Blocking?”

“We can start there and move on to parrying. I’m looking forward to seeing more of your swordplay up close.”

“Maybe I’ll pick up a few Plegian techniques, myself,” he chuckled, shifting into a solid blocking form. Robin smiled back, testing her own weapon with a few experimental swings before taking her up own stance, both hands on her sword hilt.

“Are you ready?” she asked. 

“I don’t think the enemy’s supposed to ask,” he pointed out. 

“Oh, so I’m the enemy now?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he protested -- and just barely managed to fend off a swift strike from the tactician’s blade. “Hey!”

“Hold your position,” she cautioned. 

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he insisted, squaring his stance. The next blow came too fast to block, hitting him smartly in the side. 

“Eyes on your opponent,” she said. 

“Is this about what I said outside the fort?” he demanded. He saw her tense and brought his sword up, staving off the next attack with greater ease. “I apologized, you know I didn’t mean that--”

“Then why can’t we be comrades when we spar?”

She swung low, and he swatted the blade away, preparing for the next attack. “Do you treat Frederick as an enemy when you train together? What about Sully? Or Vaike? Or is it just the Plegian?”

“You’re not my enemy,” he insisted, crossing their weapons and holding fast. “That’s not how I see you--”

The swords clattered as she strained to break past his guard. “Then how _do_ you see me, Captain?” 

“You’re my friend.” She did not look up at him, or draw back. But he thought the force on their blades eased, however slightly. “You’re my ally, and someone I trust with my life. It’s not about where you come from: it’s who you are. And I’ve seen who you are. I didn’t mean that you’re the enemy, just that...there won’t be a warning in battle.”

The tactician at last pulled back, swiping the hem of her sleeve across her face. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry about that, I…”

“It’s alright,” he murmured, stepping forward and pulling her into a careful embrace. “I could have said it a lot better. ...will you forgive me?”

“Princes shouldn’t ask forgiveness,” he heard her sniff.

“Why?”

“It’s unbecoming.”

“Says who?”

“Anyone who deals with royalty on a daily basis.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” he scoffed. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a beggar or the Exalt, if you do wrong, you apologize and ask forgiveness. ...so will you? Forgive me?”

“...if you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course,” he smiled, touching a kiss to her hairline. She stiffened at that, pulling back and scrubbing at the soft color rising in her cheeks -- which only made him laugh warmly as he took up his defensive stance again. “I think you said something about parrying?”

Robin offered him a grateful look as she hefted her own weapon again. “I hope you’re ready,” she warned. Her strike was quick -- but he was paying attention this time: blocking the blow, he pushed her back, swinging his sword in a low arc that struck her soundly on her hip. 

“Well?” he asked as she struggled to recover her form. “How was that?”

“Not bad,” she admitted, grinning up at him as she adopted a new stance. “But let’s see how you handle this.”

For all that he had expected the tactician to go easy on him, after her lecture about Lissa having their heads, Chrom had to admit that she was as rigorous a trainer as any he’d had in the past -- though infinitely more agreeable to learn from, more prone to smiles and encouragement than repetitive orders. But it was her laughter when he succeeded that heartened him more than anything else. 

***

They were both worn and weary by the time Chrom’s sister marched out to chastise them. But they were in high spirits, as well: for all her own worries about setting back the prince’s recovery, he’d done well with the exercises and frequent breaks, and having an opportunity to do something other than sit idle had done wonders for his mood...and his cheer lifted her heart. 

While Lissa dragged her brother off into the castle (likely to endure another examination before supper), Robin made her way back into the garrison, settling in to read one of the books in the common room until dinner was served in the adjoining mess hall. Fluffy bread warm from the oven, roasted meat and vegetables, sharp cheese, thick gravy...it seemed a meal befitting the Exalt herself, rather than the Ylissean militia. But Robin ate well with the rest of the Shepherds, helping herself to seconds (and surreptitious thirds, which earned her a sidelong smile from Gaius as he watched her from down the bench) before at last retiring back to the empty room she’d occupied upon their arrival earlier in the day. 

Placing her lamp on the windowsill, she unfolded her bundle of parchment again, taking up the quill and penning a new message. 

I spoke with the Exalt this afternoon. She’s agreed to allow Plegian refugees into the halidom. We’ve yet to work out the finer details, but tell Uncle that we’re making progress. 

Almost before she finished writing the last words, a fresh line of scribbles appeared beneath her own script. 

That’s greyt! I kan tel him wen he gets bak So wat next?

I’ll need to make travel arrangements to Regna Ferox as soon as we can finalize this agreement with the Exalt. With any luck, the khans will agree to lend a portion of their military might to our cause in exchange for favorable trade terms should we secure victory.

O hey Tharja and Unkl sed sumthing layk that to.

Like what? 

Abowt going to Ferox. Unkl sed Gangrel wants him tu go and Tharja sed yor dad sed he waz gona send her and my and wy shud tel them shy’s yu.

Do you have any idea when? 

Probly not til aftr Grima’s Nayt.

That at least gives us some time. 

It’l be wyrd not having yu hyr. You alweys did the kal befor. Now yor dad iz probly gona du it and meyk it wyrd. 

You’ll be fine. If you want, I can always do the call for you from here. 

Thanks Robin. I stil mis yu tho. 

I miss you, too, Henry. 

A knock sounded at the door as she set the quill aside. “Who is it?” she called, feeling an amusing prickle of deja vu as she blotted the page and tucked the sheaf of parchment back into her inner pocket. 

“Me again,” Chrom’s voice replied.

“Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?” she asked, rising and opening the door for him. 

“You make it sound like there’s such a thing as too much time with you,” he teased, moving past her and settling in the chair beside the desk. She was immediately thankful for the poor light that hid the rapidly rising color in her face. Gods, how did he do that? 

“So what can I do for you this time?” she asked, reclaiming her own seat. 

“I can’t stop by to say hello?”

“Lately it seems like you have a purpose in seeking me out.”

“Does good company count?”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. Gods, but he was charming. It was little wonder he counted so many among his friends. “I suppose. I hope Lissa didn’t reprimand you too sharply,” she remarked, pulling a folded map of the continent from her pocket and smoothing it out across the desk.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he chuckled. “The healers said I wasn’t any worse off than when they’d seen me before, so I think we’re safe for now.”

“Provided we don’t do anything like that again, I assume?”

“She didn’t say that. ...but she was probably thinking it,” he admitted. 

“I guess you’ll just have to wait out your convalescence, after all,” she sighed. 

“Or be more careful about getting caught,” the prince winked. 

“You will not be deterred, will you?”

“I hate sitting around doing nothing.”

“I’ve noticed. Which makes me wonder what you’re doing here, sitting around and doing nothing.” 

“We’re talking. That’s not nothing.”

She made a soft sound, tracing the road north from Ylisstol on the chart before her. “Is there something in particular you want to talk about, then?”

He remained silent for a few moments as she continued to peruse her map. Perhaps she’d stumped him. His company was pleasant, to be sure, but it still felt strange to imagine that his attention might not be feigned--

“Why do you worry so much about how I see you?”

She flinched down into her collar, glancing over to find his attention fixed on her. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully, thankful that her voice did not shake as she hid her trembling hands in her sleeves. 

“In the fort, you were upset because you thought I saw you as a monster. And earlier today, it was that you thought I saw you as an enemy. Why does it bother you? You know I don’t mean it that way. ...don’t you?”

“...you say you don’t mean it like that,” she mumbled, rubbing the back of her right hand. “And yet, you keep saying those things. Different words, maybe, but...the same message. And then you do things like...like arranging that audience with your sister, or that affection, and...I don’t know what to make of it. Is it guilt over speaking without thinking? Or just some way to placate the tactician for the job she’s done? Or is this all just some great jape and they’re all laughing when I turn my back because I believed it might be real -- that the prince of Ylisse might truly have kind feelings for a Plegian?” 

Her eyes burned, and she blinked to clear her blurring vision. Gods, she hadn’t meant to say all that, she should have stopped far sooner, but the words had just kept spilling out and--

She hadn’t heard him rise. But Chrom’s hand settled on her shoulder, a comforting touch that only made her shy deeper into her coat. “What’s so strange about me caring for you?” he asked gently. 

“What _isn’t?”_ she shot back. 

“And why does it matter where you’re from?”

“History.”

“Robin -- is that really what you think? That I’ve been leading you on?”

“It’s hard to think of anything else, when you’ve quite literally _dozens_ of potential suitors. Why me?”

“Because -- because you’re _you._ ” Dragging his chair from its place next to the desk, he sat down beside her, reaching out to fold his hand over her fingers where they remained hidden in her coat sleeve. “Do you know what those dozens of potential suitors are like?”

“Respectable, well-mannered, cultured, pedigreed--”

“Vapid, self-centered, greedy, interested more in advancing their own families’ standing than who they’re marrying…”

She paused, glancing at him as he propped his head in his free hand. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’ve been stuck entertaining these courtships for years,” he replied. “Why do you think I spend so much time away from Ylisstol?”

“Because the halidom needs its Shepherds for safety?”

“And it’s a damn fine excuse to get away from those hollow romances the court nobles keep trying to push on me. I’d rather be with someone thoughtful, sincere, kind-hearted...maybe a little stubborn…”

“Look who’s talking,” she scoffed. The prince laughed, slipping his arm around her shoulders and leaning his head gently against hers. “It’s...it’s just hard to believe. As nice as it is, it...feels too good to be true.”

“...do you need to pinch yourself again?”

Rolling up her sleeve...she paused, glancing at the man beside her. He offered a questioning look in return, his gaze warm and bright even in the weak lamplight. 

Her father had told her, among so many other poisonous things, that love is a commodity bought with blood and sweat. And once, she had believed him, and thought that only pain and effort might win her affection from any quarter. That she deserved nothing until she proved herself. 

But she had learned to recognize his lies. The world was not the place he’d once made her believe. It was more beautiful, more exciting, and more kind than anything she had experienced within his suffocating grasp. So perhaps…

...perhaps she might deserve this. Not for anything done or said or proven...but simply because she _herself_ was worthy of it. 

Pushing her sleeve back down, a shy smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe I don’t,” she decided, reaching out to touch his hand. 

The grin that overwhelmed his expression made her cheeks burn. And the kiss he touched to her lips spread that gentle fire through her chest to warm her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing for Henry is absolutely _fascinating._ I knew from the outset that he probably has a much harder time with writing than Robin does, since his education hasn't exactly been the best; reading is probably a challenge, and he makes more use of rote memorization than actually reading incantations (which helps in casting speed, so it's not necessarily a bad thing). In most cases, his spelling is entirely phonetic, with all vowels having a set sound (a is 'ah,' e is 'eh,' i is 'ih,' o is 'oh,' u is his catch-all as either 'uh' or 'ooh', and y is 'ee'), which leads to some frankly incredible spelling. The full transcript from Robin's opening missive to her final reply in the last scene is below, translated into plain text with normal spelling. 
> 
> We've made it back to Ylisstol. It sounds like we'll be spending some time here, so hopefully I'll be able to petition an audience with the Exalt before our next mission.
> 
> Do you think she'll help? 
> 
> Shouldn't you be working? 
> 
> Tharja yelled at me and told me to go away. 
> 
> What were you doing? 
> 
> Nothing! I was trying to help move supplies. It's not my fault she walked into a floating box. 
> 
> Did you warn her that you were going to help? 
> 
> How are things going there? 
> 
> Uncle got a lot of supplies for everyone yesterday so we're doing better now. But the storm stopped too and now your dad and Gangrel are back to fighting. Uncle's evacuating another block today. 
> 
> How much of the city is even still standing? 
> 
> Not a lot. We had a scare last night when one of Gangrel's men knocked on the door, but Uncle sent him on and I don't think he saw anything. 
> 
> I'm glad you're okay, Henry.
> 
> I really miss you, Robin. 
> 
> I miss you, too. I'll write again when I have more news. Try not to get into trouble. 
> 
> I spoke with the Exalt this afternoon. She's agreed to allow Plegian refugees into the halidom. We've yet to work out the finer details, but tell Uncle that we're making progress. 
> 
> That's great! I can tell him when he gets back. So what next? 
> 
> I'll need to make travel arrangements to Regna Ferox as soon as we can finalize this agreement with the Exalt. With any luck, the khans will agree to lend a portion of their military might to our cause in exchange for favorable trade terms should we secure victory. 
> 
> Oh hey Tharja and Uncle said something like that too. 
> 
> Like what? 
> 
> About going to Ferox. Uncle said Gangrel wants him to go and Tharja said your dad said he was gonna send her and me and we should tell them she's you. 
> 
> Do you have any idea when? 
> 
> Probably not til after Grima's Night. 
> 
> That at least gives us some time. 
> 
> It'll be weird not having you here. You always did the call before. Now your dad is probably gonna do it and make it weird. 
> 
> You'll be fine. If you want, I can always do the call for you from here. 
> 
> Thanks Robin. I still miss you, though. 
> 
> I miss you, too, Henry.


	3. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest night of the year -- Grima's Night -- is a time of celebration in Ylisse, where children parade through the streets in costume to fend off the fell dragon's spirits. It's all fun and games when Chrom invites Robin to join in the festivities...and over the course of the night, the reticent tactician is able to show a very different side of herself, and manages to share how the night is greeted beyond the halidom's borders with her Ylissean hosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever to finish wow
> 
> Apologies for the delay on this chapter, but I think we're back on track now. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a rather anxious writer and my confidence is easily broken, so it's taken me a while to get myself back to a place where A) I can write at all, and B) I can circle back to write this story. But I want to finish this piece, regardless of what people think or how they decide to measure it against the other Chrobin Week piece, because this is a story with deep meaning for me, and even if it's only for me, I want to see it through to its end. 
> 
> Rambling aside, Halloween makes for an interesting prompt in a non-modern setting. Rather than taking it at face value, I pulled from the spirit of it: festive celebrations, costumes, candy, excitement for scares...and cultural traditions. And based on what we know from the game, I tried to think of where something like that would best fit.
> 
> And so we have Grima's Night.
> 
> Not only that, but given the drastically different connotations that Grima has on each side of the mountain range dividing Ylisse from Plegia, this prompt offered a perfect opportunity to explore the Grimleal nation in greater depth, given how woefully little we're given from the game's perspective. I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope it all comes across well. No perspective changes this time around, but dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene. Enjoy!

“Grima’s Night?”

“Yeah!” Lissa laughed, clearly struggling to contain her excitement while Maribelle fussed with the princess’ wispy skirts. “You’ve never heard of it?”

“I didn’t know Ylisse celebrated the fell dragon,” Robin replied. Plegia, yes -- it was one of the most important nights of their year. Naga’s halidom...it seemed wholly at odds with their faith to dedicate a day to the enemy of their goddess. Looking to Chrom, she saw him wink at her as Frederick turned his back on them; it made her smile despite herself, though she hid it swiftly as the great knight presented an ornamental silver helm to the prince, returning her attention to his enthusiastic sister. 

“Well, we’re not _really_ celebrating Grima,” Lissa explained, her gauzy dress billowing as she twirled in place. “See, the longest night of the year is when all the evil spirits come out, but they’re all scared of monsters because ghouls and goblins will eat them right up! So on Grima’s Night we all dress up like monsters and there’s a big party in Ylisstol where we go through the streets and scare away the ghosts from everybody’s houses and we get candy for doing a good job of protecting them!”

“It’s mostly a celebration for kids,” Chrom added, smoothing his hair back before testing the helmet. The filigreed horns curling around his face were quite striking, she had to admit. “Which explains why it’s Lissa’s favorite holiday.”

“Hey! I am _not_ a little kid!” she insisted, stomping her boot childishly as she whirled on her brother. 

“Careful, darling,” Maribelle cautioned, fixing a series of silver ornaments in the princess’ hair before draping a spiderweb-patterned veil across them. “There. You look simply _spectacular,_ dear -- you’ll surely be the light of the festivities.”

Beaming, Lissa skipped across the room and hopped onto the bench beside the tactician, hooking her arm and offering a puppy-eyed stare. “You’re coming, too, right?”

Robin mustered a vague smile, patting the princess’ fingers gently. “I’m not sure if that’s the best idea.”

“Why not?” Chrom asked, glancing over his shoulder at them as he adjusted his tattered blue-grey cape.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I _am_ Plegian,” she remarked, amused and faintly heartened by how often that fact seemed to slip their minds. “I don’t know if the people of Ylisstol would take kindly to a Grima-worshipper joining in their celebration.”

“That’s silly,” Lissa huffed. “Nobody’s gonna mind! Everybody’s gonna be having fun and there’ll be lots of sweets and games to play and…”

“Even if you’re not a kid, it’s still a good time,” Chrom chuckled, flexing his hands in a pair of silver gauntlets with delicately honed claws on each fingertip. “What do you think?” he asked, turning toward them with arms outstretched. 

“Ooh, scary!” his sister laughed. And Robin had to admit, he did strike quite the imposing figure: between the midnight blue tunic and trousers picked with black and silver thread, the pieces of gleaming armor with their eerie blue sheen, and the ragged cloak clasped at his shoulder with a skull pin, she was certain she’d take a fright running into him in the dark. 

“You know, for all that you say this is _Lissa’s_ favorite holiday, _you_ seem to be putting in a lot of effort,” the tactician remarked. 

“It’s tradition!” he protested (and it took all the self-control she could muster not to giggle as his face began to turn red). “House Ylisse always attends the festivities, and we have to fit in. Right?” he prompted, looking to his sister. 

“Chrom doesn’t like sweets,” Lissa whispered loudly to Robin. “He just likes to dress up.”

“Hey!”

The princess laughed, diving behind the tactician as her brother stalked across the room. “I could make you go alone, you know,” he warned, planting his hands on his hips. 

“Okay, fine! I’ll just take Robin, instead,” she shot back, sticking her tongue out at the prince as she grabbed onto the tactician’s arm again. “We’ll have a great time, and you can just stay here and sulk. Come on, come on, what do you want to dress up like?”

“What? Oh, no, I couldn’t--”

“I’m sure we’ve got something around that’ll be just right -- do you want to be a wraith like me? Or something really spooky, like a demon?”

“Really, Lissa, I don’t think--”

But the princess would not be deterred. Robin sighed, watching as Lissa bounced off to browse through the wardrobes for a costume that might suit their resident tactician. This all felt so strange -- nothing at all like Grima’s Night back home…

Chrom’s hand settled gently on her shoulder. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to,” he assured her. 

Robin sighed, touching his gauntlet appreciatively while Maribelle moved to assist Lissa in her search and Frederick vainly attempted to stop them both. “I don’t mind, really,” she murmured. “But...I’d rather go as I am, if I could.”

“Then you should,” the prince smiled. “Come on, let’s sneak out.”

She grinned mischievously at him, pulling her hood up as she rose silently from her place and slipped out into the hall. No one appeared to have noticed their departure (or, at the very least, Lissa hadn’t raised the alarm yet)...she wondered how far they could get before someone did, and hurried on with rustle of Chrom’s cape at her heels. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to realize?” she asked, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing attention. 

“Who knows?” the prince murmured in her ear, his arms slipping around her waist and lifting her off the ground. She buried a startled laugh in her sleeve, swatting at his helm with her free hand as he nuzzled her shoulder. “I say they can take their time.”

“And _I_ say you should put me down,” she shot back, squirming in his grip. 

“Maybe I don’t want to,” Chrom replied, his teasing smile edging into the words. “I am a monster tonight, after all.”

She beamed despite herself as he at last returned her to the ground, glancing over her shoulder at him -- but as he leaned close, they both heard a door behind them crash open. “Chroooooom!” his sister whined. “You big jerk, why’d you run off like that!?”

“I’m taking Robin down to see the festival,” he called back as the tactician darted ahead, hurrying to catch up as Lissa’s protests echoed behind them. As she burst out into the cold evening air, Robin stared out at the city spread beyond the palace grounds. Ylisstol’s streets always glowed well into the night, but now red and violet lanterns hung throughout the central square, casting halos of colored light across the booths and stages erected for the festivities. As they made their way down the castle steps and onto the main thoroughfare leading to the plaza, strains of music floated up to meet them, and children in all manner of curious costumes capered through the brilliant roads on their way to join the celebration. 

Lissa and Frederick finally managed to catch up with them as they neared the city center, and together they all made their way into the square. She heard a ripple of applause sweep through the crowd, turning from murmurs to cheers as the halidom’s prince and princess made their way to the stage and officially opened the evening’s festivities to riotous fanfare. And true to form, Chrom jumped from the edge of the stage to join her on the ground, grinning sidelong at the tactician as he led the way through the firelight. 

They wandered aimlessly for a while taking in the sights and sounds of the celebration: musicians playing Ylissean folksongs, children and parents both trying their hands at games of skill and chance, vendors selling all manner of sweet and savory treats to the milling crowds. The longer they wandered, the more children she saw gathering around the square, waving empty satchels and adjusting their makeshift horns and tails and fangs. 

“Soon they’ll start going down the streets,” the prince noted, pointing out the little goblins clustering around the roads branching off the plaza. “The buildings with lights have someone inside to greet them and give them a present. Usually sweets.”

“They haven’t gotten their fill from here?” Robin laughed, gesturing to the booths around them. 

“Not a chance!” Lissa insisted, planting her hands on her hips. “Come on, come on! Let’s go!” Marching off with clear purpose, the princess led the way to a small side road where candles burned in nearly every window the tactician could see. “This street has the _best_ stuff,” she explained, flourishing a lacy purse that perfectly matched the rest of her outfit. “And it’s usually pretty quiet, too, which means more for us!”

“More for her, she means,” Chrom teased. His sister stuck her tongue out at him, and Robin hid a grin behind her hand, watching as a small horde of monsters bounded up to join them…

...and stopped a few paces away, staring silently at their group. Robin glanced at the prince, who shrugged and moved to greet the children with his usual smile, crouching down before them. “What’s wrong?” she heard him ask. 

She saw them glance past him, clustering a bit closer together as a one of the girls worried at the bag between her hands...and pointed shyly over Chrom’s shoulder. “Is that Grima?”

Her chest constricted as she tucked her hands into her pockets, desperate to hide their shaking as the prince turned to look back at her. She had let herself get carried away by the warmth and light and energy of the night, so different from home but so welcome all the same -- but now she could feel the stares again, hear the whispers rustling around her, cold and sharp as knife points pricking her skin…

And yet...the children gathered around the prince were still watching her with interest, rather than the loathing she could sense from the parents or the fear she would expect.

She drew herself up to her full height, the tips of her fingers brushing against the etched stone in her coat pocket. Well, this was Grima’s Night: perhaps Grima should make an appearance. 

“Yes,” she purred, slipping the tile into her sleeve as she drifted back into the shadows of the quiet street. “I am Grima.”

“Robin,” Chrom called worriedly, rising to his feet as she gently touched the tome hidden in her breast pocket. The wind stirred at her silent call, swirling around her and making her coat billow ominously. 

“This night is mine,” she continued, spreading her arms to take in the shadows on all sides. “And now that my powers have reached their peak, I have come to visit fear upon your city -- and with an army of spirits at my back, none may quell the fell dragon!”

Pale orbs of violet flame winked to light around her, floating eerily in the darkness and making her shadow flicker and loom toward the square. She saw Frederick plant himself protectively in front of Lissa, watched the children murmuring amongst themselves as the prince stepped toward her…

...and grinned under her hood, offering a mischievous wink that stopped him in his tracks. 

The tactician’s low laughter echoed softly in the narrow alley as one of the smaller children mustered up her courage, marching past Chrom to stand at the very edge of the plaza’s light. “It would seem some foolish mortal seeks to challenge me,” Robin murmured, amusement ringing in her voice. “But my spirits fear no man, you cannot hope to defy my might…”

The goblin did not retreat, even when the tactician’s shadow stretched into the light around her. “...wait. What is this?” Robin asked, drawing back with a dramatic flourish as the lights shrank further into the dark and one by one began to wink out. “A _monster_ has come to challenge me?” The girl nodded hard enough to set her headpiece askew, and hurriedly righted her horns as the wind died down. “Impossible! Such a fearful creature -- the spirits quake and flee! My...my powers! They wane…”

The tactician bowed her head to hide her grin as she staggered and fell to her knees, recollecting her composure before turning her attention to the startled child standing before her. “I don’t understand...my army has deserted me, and without them my strength is sapped. Mighty goblin -- will you be the one to strike down the fell dragon?”

The girl frowned, clearly lost in thought. But finally she raised her hand, stepping forward and patting Robin’s forehead firmly with her open palm. 

The tactician’s groan couldn’t drown out Lissa’s sudden storm of giggles. Collapsing theatrically to the stones, Robin rolled onto her back, lifting a shaking fist toward the dark sky overhead. “You have bested me this night, O Mighty Goblin Queen -- but know this! I shall return again, in one year’s time, when the night once more is at its height...relish this victory...while you may…”

Her voice faded into an overdrawn death rattle that drew a snort of laughter from Chrom. And then she let her arm fall, going perfectly still and fighting to keep a straight face as she steadied and slowed her breathing. Remaining motionless proved rather challenging when the patter of footsteps clustered around her and tiny hands began to poke and prod at their vanquished foe, but she persevered; unfortunately, her act did not manage to survive the imp that crawled up onto her chest and patted her cheek. “Grima’s dead now,” she whispered, slitting one eye open to look at the boy. And yet, he did not seem deterred by that fact, poking her again until she finally sighed and lifted her hood. “Alright, alright. What is it?”

The child pulled his bag of candy close and dug into it, finally removing a sugar-dusted fig and shoving it toward her. “You’re certain? You may risk restoring the fell dragon’s powers,” Robin warned -- but the boy only grinned brighter, shaking it still more insistently. “...well, if you’re _absolutely certain,_ ” the tactician relented, plucking it from the child’s fingers and offering a gentle smile. “Thank you.” As he squealed in apparent delight, she popped the confection into her mouth…

...and as the warm, sweet flavor spread across her tongue, she sat up, sending the boy sprawling into her lap with a giddy laugh. “This is delicious,” she said, gently helping the child back up. “By any chance, would know how how Grima could get more of that?” she asked, looking around the bright-eyed ring of monsters bouncing around her. 

“This way!” the Goblin Queen announced, taking Robin’s sleeve and tugging her toward the glowing windows lining the dark street. “Come on, come on!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” the tactician laughed as the rest of the children joined the chorus. 

As she made an attempt to gather herself up, a gleaming silver gauntlet reached out to her. Glancing up, she met Chrom’s grin with a smile of her own. “Need a hand?” he asked. 

“I’d appreciate it -- I fear I’ll be beset by monsters if I don’t hurry,” she chuckled, taking his hand. He gripped her wrist gently, careful of the claws on his fingertips as he drew her to her feet and helped to brush the road dirt from her coat--

“That was _great!”_ Lissa laughed. Robin beamed, turning as the princess bounced over to join them. 

“You had me worried at first,” the prince admitted. 

“Sorry about that,” the tactician giggled, dusting off her trousers. “It was a spur of the moment idea. I mean, it _is_ Grima’s Night, and I’ve got the perfect costume, so...why not make the most of it? Do a little acting, give the kids something to talk about with their friends tomorrow...and I figured that one of you would step up into the role of hero, if they didn’t,” she added, winking at Chrom. 

“How did you do that thing with the ghosts, though?” Lissa demanded as one of the children took hold of Robin’s sleeve and began to tug them insistently down the street. 

“Oh, that was easy,” the tactician laughed, producing the tablet she’d hidden in her sleeve and offering it for them to see. “It’s my night light,” she explained, summoning another pale orb to dance over their heads. “It’s a lot easier than fumbling around in the dark trying to relight a candle in the middle of the night.”

“...that’s _brilliant!”_ the princess clapped. “Think of all the _candy_ we’ll get when we chase something off for real!”

...Robin actually hadn’t thought of that. “I hope you intend to share, I don’t have a candy satchel of my own,” she remarked. 

“What? No! It’s mine!” Lissa insisted.

“No sharing, no nightlight,” the tactician said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You can have some of mine!” the Goblin Queen piped up, followed by the rest of the gremlins and ogres gathered around them. And when the princess at last gave in, Robin beamed, sending the soft lights drifting off along the road ahead with the monsters in pursuit. 

Lissa was right: delighted by the costumed children chasing off the harmless flames, the people were _very_ generous with their treats. And much to her own surprise, even the parents seemed to appreciate Robin’s efforts, offering a pleasant word or a smile as their children scampered off to claim their rewards. 

“We should do this every Grima’s Night,” Chrom remarked as they turned back toward the square, their bags filled to bursting with sweets of all sorts. 

“You should,” the tactician agreed, accepting several purses of candy buttons, sugar drops, and honey crystals from the princess and tucking them away in her pockets. Gods, if Gaius found out about this hoard she’d never be able to shake him--

Something tugged the hem of her coat. Looking down, she smiled as a very small boy rubbed sleepily at one of his eyes, smudging the dark make-up around them. “I tired, Gima,” he mumbled. 

“Well, it certainly has been a long night,” she murmured, kneeling down for him. “Climb up, tiny one. Grima can carry you a while.” The child did not hesitate, wrapping his arms around her neck as she folded her arms beneath him and rocked up to her feet. While most of the procession had already moved several paces ahead, she was rather glad to find that the prince had stayed to wait for her. 

“So you’ll be Grima next year, then?” Chrom prompted as they moved to rejoin the rest of the group. 

“Why do you need me to do it?” Robin asked. “Anyone could. It just takes a costume and a little spellcraft. Or stagecraft, I suppose.” She’s certainly seen some remarkable tricks in the square…

“It’s better when it’s you.”

She shook her head fondly. “Even if that is true -- and I have my doubts -- if all goes well, the conflict in Plegia will be settled by the next Grima’s Night, so...I’ll likely be there.” 

“Why couldn’t you come back?”

“It’s not like the restoration is going to be completed in a few months: rebuilding alone will take time, and then there’s all the disruption to trade and commerce and agriculture that will need to be sorted out…”

“Isn’t that someone else’s job?” he pressed. “They can’t expect a courtier to do all that.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she shrugged, careful of the child on her back. “I should still be there doing what I can.”

“Can you try, at least? Grima’s Night really is better with you here.”

“And _how!”_ Lissa piped up, hugging her overflowing satchel. “This is the best haul _ever!_ And your act was so great!”

“See?” Chrom grinned as the children around them clamored in agreement. “Everyone thinks so. So next year, we really do need you back.”

“...I’ll consider it,” the tactician relented. “...but thank you for letting me join in tonight.”

“It’s been our pleasure,” the prince grinned. And as they made their way back to the light of the plaza, she found herself oddly tempted to find her way back to Ylisse someday. Even if it wasn’t for the Grima’s Night celebrations...she would like to return. 

\-----

It was very late by the time Robin finally made it back to the garrison, laden with more sweets than she quite knew what to do with. To her surprise (and relief), Maribelle was still in the common waiting for Lissa’s return...and though she was understandably confused when the tactician approached with an odd request, she seemed happy enough to comply -- after Robin promised to share, at least. 

Half an hour and one cup of the tactician’s jealously guarded cardamom tea later, Robin finally managed to pry herself away from the noblewoman’s company, taking the bone china teaset with her and swearing to return it, clean and unharmed, the next morning. Making her way into an empty room, she placed the tray on the table and removed the various items she’d collected over the course of the day: six candle stubs, a few sprigs of dried lavender, a pair of cracked saucers, several dark stones, and a phial of sweet oil. 

When she thought about it, she’d never actually prepared this ceremony herself before. Every year, she performed the invocation, but the ritual arrangements had already been completed before her arrival: she had very little to do, beyond speaking the rite. But she’d seen the finished array enough times in her life to know what needed to be done...and there was a certain relief that came from knowing she was alone tonight. No cold stare judging her recitation. No need for a flawless performance. No threat of reprimand should she make a misstep. 

Gods forgive her, but she was relieved to be in Ylisse this Grima’s Night.

Humming softly, Robin began to prepare her private ceremony piece by piece. Arranging the pebbles on the more battered of the two plates, she emptied the vial onto the other before digging into her pockets for the tiny obsidian blade she carried. Pricking the tip of her middle finger, she coaxed a few drops of blood to the surface before dipping her fingertip into the oil, swirling to mingle them. She glanced toward the windows as she worked, thinking back to the slant of light as she walked up to the palace that afternoon at the prince and princess’ summons...and moved around the table to face east, drawing the Mark of Grima on the table’s surface with the twining roots growing from the sunset. 

Placing one candle stub on each of the eyes, she took the lamp from the windowsill and lit each wick in turn before touching the flame to the end of the lavender sprigs. They caught easily, and for a moment she let them burn...before extinguishing the flowers with a soft breath, leaving a curl of fragrant smoke twining up from the glowing tips. Placing the other saucer at the center of the mark, she arranged the stalks between the stones to keep them upright and finally stepped back, cleaning her hands with a handkerchief as she surveyed her work. Nothing grand, to be sure...but she was rather proud of it, nonetheless. 

Drawing in a slow breath, the tactician touched the tips of her thumb and middle finger to her forehead, then to the corners of her eyes, and finally to her breast before lacing her fingers over her stomach and bowing her head. “O Grima, You who watches over us from the shadows of this world, I pray You hear my call and answer: on this night, when Your great wings so long embrace the world, allow those souls who have joined You to walk amongst us once more, that we may share again in their company under Your watchful gaze. With the wisdom granted by Your Eyes, we entreat You; with the strength granted by Your Eyes, we beseech You; with the love granted by Your Eyes, we implore You; guide them home, as Your presence guides us from the shadows.”

Silence settled over the room in the wake of her quiet rite. The sweet, subtle aroma of lavender smoke eased her mind as she breathed a steady sigh, removing her coat and placing it over the back of one chair before taking her own seat across the table. Pouring two cups of tea, she set one before each place...and smiled, folding her hands around the warm china as she looked at the coat before her. 

“Hello, Mother,” she murmured. “I’m sorry I’m so late greeting you tonight. It was...a very busy evening.”

The memory warmed her as she set her thoughts in order. It would not make the words easier, but...it gave her heart, even still. “It’s been...it’s been a difficult year. Things are getting worse in Plegia. The fighting between Father’s men and Gangrel’s is destroying the capital, and the fighting is spreading beyond the city borders little by little. Unless something’s done, it won’t be long before the whole country’s engulfed in all-out war, and everyone will suffer for it...so I decided to leave Plegia, and seek aid from our neighbors. Gangrel’s forces barred the way north, so I wound up heading across the eastern border into the halidom, and...you wouldn’t believe it -- gods, _I_ didn’t even believe it -- but the first person I met was the prince of Ylisse. And he took me in without a second thought. ...well, alright, first there were raiders -- a band of Gangrel’s men crossed in pursuit and attacked a nearby village, so I helped to rout them, and then...the prince invited me to join him. Become part of the Ylissean militia, as a tactician. So I did, and I’ve spent the last few months dealing with bandits, and skirmishers, and rogues, and all sorts of other little problems here in the halidom. And a few weeks ago, I met with the Ylissean Exalt, and she agreed to allow Plegian refugees into the halidom to escape the fighting until we can deal with this war once and for all. She’s so kind -- I had been so worried when I came that I would need to argue and plead, but...she agreed without hesitation. I hope...that someday I can be a leader like that: willing to help anyone and everyone without needing arguments over the benefits or promises of later recompense.”

Rubbing the back of her right hand, Robin stared down at her reflection on the surface of her tea. “I’ve met a lot of people here in Ylisse. The Shepherds -- the members of the militia -- are all very kind, too. Some of them are loud and brash, like Vaike and Sully; some always seem to be getting into trouble, like Gaius; and their captain, Prince Chrom, is...he’s very warm. He’s outgoing and passionate, and he makes mistakes, but he’s always striving to be better, and...he’s forgiving. Even when others around him fail, he doesn’t...he doesn’t lose faith in them, or cast them aside. And there’s something about his smile that makes me want to try harder, so I don’t let him down again.”

...those were likely very suspect words, when she thought about them. Lifting her teacup, she forced her thoughts to other subjects that did not immediately evoke the image of Chrom’s grin in her mind. “Did you know they celebrate Grima’s Night here in Ylisse? Not like we do in Plegia -- here it’s a children’s festival, where they dress up and get candy for scaring off evil spirits. Chrom and his sister invited me to join them, which is what kept me. I...wasn’t sure how to feel about it, at first, since it felt like I was chasing away loved ones trying to come home, even if the Ylisseans don’t know it. But I went, and it was so much fun -- the lights and the music and the food, and...and there were these children who asked if I was Grima, because of your coat. Which hit rather close to the mark, I’ll admit,” she muttered, drumming her fingertips across the back of her hand again. “But it is Grima’s Night. And...why have I been doing the invocation all these years, if not for the fact that I bear the Heart? So I decided to play along. Be Grima for them, and let them win their great battle. Because if only for tonight...they weren’t afraid of the fell dragon. My play made them happy -- they _wanted_ to be friends with Grima, share the night with the fell dragon. ...share it with _me_. And it was nice,” she whispered. “It was so nice to have friends, rather than worshippers, as Grima. And more than that, it felt so _good_ to pretend and made someone really _happy,_ instead of just...just keeping misery at bay. Gods, the way they smiled and laughed over that silly act...it made me feel so _good,_ giving them that little joy.”

She tightened her fingers as the teacup in her hands began to shake. “There are so many things I want to ask you. So many things I wish you could tell me. There’s...something coming, very soon -- Father’s sending Henry and Tharja to Ferox soon, and Gangrel’s sending Mustafa, and I’m going to meet them there to ask for military aid from the khans. And I’ve been preparing for this for so long, but...now that it’s almost here, I’m frightened. Not of what they’ll say, but of what these designs I’ve laid make me. You’re my mother, and I know you’re part of me, but...but as my father, so is _he,_ and I’m so afraid that I’ll become the person he is -- hateful, cruel, spiteful...and I don’t want to be that, I don’t want--”

The knock at the door took her entirely by surprise. Fumbling the teacup (but thankfully not dropping it), Robin hastily scrubbed at her blurry eyes, drawing a breath to call out -- but before she could speak a word, the door opened on its own. “Here you are,” Chrom chuckled. “I was wondering where you ran off to. I was going to ask if you if you had a good time tonight -- what have you been up to while I got changed?” he asked, glancing at the array on the table as he pulled the chair bearing her coat out--

“Stop!”

The prince paused, a frown overtaking his surprise as he looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t sit there,” she replied. 

“I didn’t mean that -- wait, why not?” 

“Because it’s…”

Her voice faltered as she rubbed the back of her hand. Gods, this was uncomfortable, and all the more after she’d just joined in their celebration…

“It’s okay,” the prince murmured, touching her shoulder gently. “You can tell me.”

“...that’s my mother’s seat.”

She feared she would choke on the silence that met those words. She’d known that it would be awkward, but this reaction made her heart twist in the familiar, oppressive grip of dread--

Chrom stepped away from the chair. 

And instead he moved to the place beside her. “Is this one alright?” he offered, resting his hand on the back of the seat. 

“...yes,” she agreed, nodding slowly as he pulled the chair out and sat down. Her hands still shook as she poured another cup of tea and held it out to him...but he only smiled, steadying her fingers with a brief touch as he accepted the saucer. 

“So. Do you mind if I ask about this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the candles and the smoking flowers and her coat at what appeared to be an empty seat. 

“This is how we celebrate Grima’s Night in Plegia,” she replied softly. “In Ylisse, it’s a festival for children, but...for Grimleal, it’s a holy day.”

“You know, I don’t know anything about the Grimleal faith,” the prince mused. “...well, except for the Grima worship. But I think that’s a given.”

There was no mockery in his voice. Only warmth and a quiet sort of invitation that at last began to calm her nerves. “Well, the Grima worship is rather important. See, when Grima fell a millennium ago, He was not destroyed. His body was, but His essence -- His soul -- became the shadow of the world. Grimleal believe that through our shadows, Grima walks with us, watches over us, and guides us on through troubled times, for even in death He has not forsaken His people. It’s said that when our bodies die, our souls go on to Grima...and the longest night of the year, when His powers are at their height, is the night when all those departed souls can be called back to reunite with their families.”

“So Grima isn’t sending evil spirits, but…”

“Departed relatives and loved ones,” Robin agreed. “In Plegia, we celebrate Grima’s Night with communal feasts. At sunset, there’s an invocation to call the spirits home, and their places at the banquet are marked with the things they favored in life. And then friends and families all settle to eat and drink and talk about what’s happened in the last year, and most people don’t sleep until dawn, when Grima’s power wanes and the souls depart for another year.”

The prince sipped his tea, glancing again across the table. “So your mother is here?”

“Yes,” the tactician smiled. “It’s been nearly ten years since she went to Grima, but every Grima’s Night I can at least speak to her for a while. ...I wish sometimes that I could ask her questions, and have her answer, the way she did when I was small -- there are so many things I never had a chance to ask, or didn’t _know_ to ask before...but talking to her helps. And every year, I try my best, so that...when she sees me again, she can take pride in the person I’m becoming.”

“She should,” Chrom agreed. “You should be proud,” he added, turning to the chair that bore her coat. “Robin is easily one of the smartest, kindest people I’ve ever known. She tends to blame herself for things that aren’t her fault, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t sleep, but she’s _always_ trying to help other people however she can. So I’ve been trying to help out lately, so she doesn’t feel like she has to do everything on her own -- should I have introduced myself?” he asked suddenly, turning toward her. 

“Don’t worry,” Robin laughed. “I don’t think she’ll mind. She had a wonderful sense of humor, so this really seems like something she’d find entertaining, and then tease you about for the rest of the night.”

“Well, now I know where you get it from,” the prince grinned. “You know, this isn’t really how I expected to meet your parents.”

The tactician nearly choked on her tea. “Isn’t it a bit early to be thinking about that?”

“Is it?”

“I was under the impression that meeting someone’s parents in Ylisse was mostly customary for close friends.”

“Are we not close?” he pressed, propping his chin in his hand. 

“Are we _that_ close?” she shot back. 

“I’d like to think so,” he smiled. “I mean, you’ve met my family, and you came to the festival with us...I’d like to think that means something. And you didn’t send me away when I barged in, either.”

...she actually hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps it was the surprise of the intrusion. 

Or maybe...he could be right. She’d already mentioned him, after all. Perhaps not everything, but Robin had a feeling her mother would have guessed the truth long before his arrival. 

“In that case...Mother, this is Chrom. The one I told you about,” she added, watching his head come up out of the corner of her eye. 

“So you’ve already told her about me?”

“A few things.”

“Good things?”

“Maybe.”

“You didn’t tell her about the time I fell off the back of Sully’s horse, did you?”

“No, but I think that story would be a perfect way for her to get to know you--”

“Gods, don’t tell her any more, I’ll never live it down!”

She laughed, a warm smile finally displacing the last of her anxieties -- and in spite of his protests, she found the same cheer mirrored in Chrom’s face. 


	4. Ylisse and Plegia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intending to seek aid for Plegia from the Feroxi khans, Robin is surprised when Chrom announces that the Shepherds have their own mission north of the Longfort: delivering a message from the Exalt to the princess of Plegia. Robin finally faces her fears and reveals the secrets she's kept so long hidden -- but danger lurks beyond the stronghold walls, and a cruel truth threatens to lay waste to all of the tactician's careful planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is the prompt for Day 5, but for Plot Purposes I swapped the Day 4 and Day 5 prompts. ~~To make up for it, this chapter is 11.5k words, haha~~ While this is a heavier chapter overall, we do get to meet my favorite dark mage in the flesh, which makes everything better as far as I'm concerned. Also, there is some extra fancy font in here; translation at the end as needed. 
> 
> Also, please be aware that there is a drowning scene in this chapter at the end of the fourth scene/beginning of the fifth; if that kind of content makes you uncomfortable, just skip to the first mention of 'Feroxi medics' and you should be safe. 
> 
> And as always, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Enjoy!

“So you plan to leave soon?” Emmeryn asked. 

“I’m afraid so,” Robin sighed, stirring a bit of honey into her tea. “I received word this morning that my agents have completed their travel preparations, so they should be setting off for Ferox tomorrow at dawn. I’ll be meeting them there to speak with the khans about military aid, and to plan our next move depending on the outcome. Provided that conditions are fair in Plegia, they should be able to reach the Longfort within a fortnight, so ideally I should leave within the next few days so our arrivals coincide.”

“I pray you have a safe journey,” the Exalt murmured, lifting her teacup from its saucer. “And that the weather remains fair for your travels, as well. Winter tends to be rather fickle on this side of the mountains.”

“So I’ve noticed,” the tactician smiled, turning to the windows overlooking the snowy gardens. “But the Northroad is easier to traverse than the deserts or the Midmire. A weather delay seems far more amenable than trudging through sand again.”

“A fair point,” Emmeryn laughed. “Have you informed my brother yet?”

“That’s on my list of things to accomplish this afternoon,” Robin replied, running a fingertip along the rim of her cup. “I’d been waiting until I had confirmation, so...now seems like the right time.” Not that the timing made it any easier…

“You still haven’t told him who you are, have you?”

The tactician shrugged slightly, unable to meet the Exalt’s eye. “It’s a moot point now.” And it still seemed better that he not find out at all. 

“What do you fear he would say, if he knew?”

Robin glanced up, taking in Emmeryn’s gentle, inviting expression. “It’s not about what he would say,” the tactician murmured, setting her teacup aside and idly rubbing the back of her right hand. “Not...not entirely, at least. It’s...how he’ll look at me, once he knows that I deceived him. Even if it was a precaution at first, for safety, I could have told him a dozen times over since we took up here in Ylisstol. And...it’s my fault, I know, that he’d feel he can’t trust me -- that I betrayed him -- because I could have told him and didn’t.”

The Exalt leaned across the table, touching Robin’s shoulder gently. “He will understand,” she assured the tactician. “I’m certain of that. And I believe you know him well enough to be sure, yourself.”

“...I try to tell myself that,” the tactician confessed. “But every time I do, there’s that voice in the back of my mind that says _everyone_ has a limit to what they will accept. And given how long I’ve kept up this charade, how long I’ve led him to believe that I’m just some courtier come begging aid for Plegia from her neighbors...how could that not break what faith he has in me?” And even if it was always her father’s voice cutting her down in those imaginings, sneering over how he could not respect someone so willing to keep such an important truth hidden, that did not reassure her that Chrom’s reaction would be any different--

“It’s alright.”

Robin started as Emmeryn’s delicate fingers folded around her own, stilling their trembling. “I know my brother,” the Exalt smiled. “This will not change the way he sees you, or feels for you. It will not break his trust in you: it will only allow him to see you in a new light.”

The tactician mustered a weak smile, meeting Emmeryn’s eye at last. “Thank you,” she murmured. “...I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” the Exalt said. “It’s all anyone could ever ask.”

The words almost made her laugh. _Try_ had never been a word her father accepted. Either she _did_ or she _failed,_ with no room at all for error -- and anything less than a flawless execution was considered failure in his eyes. To have the attempt valued rather than undermined, and the effort alone rewarded with praise instead of scorn...gods, the world was so different than she’d once been led to believe. 

And it made her all the happier to be here. 

Blinking to clear her vision, Robin offered up a warm smile. “Thank you again, Your Grace. For everything you’ve done -- both for me and for Plegia.”

“I’m happy that we were able to meet,” Emmeryn replied. “And I hope that what aid the halidom can provide will help to bring peace to your homeland.”

Lifting her teacup in a light toast, the tactician felt her heart swell with hope. “May it be the first step toward peace between our two nations.”

When she eventually took her leave of the parlour, Robin felt the faintest pang of sorrow overtake her enthusiasm. Tea time with the Exalt was something she’d come to look forward to during her stay in Ylisstol. In all likelihood, this would be their last chance to meet like this, speak so candidly and so privately of politics and diplomacy and matters far more simple...but just as Emmeryn had her duties to fulfill, so too did the tactician. 

And very soon, if all went according to plan, Robin would come to know the same burden of rule that the Exalt bore so regally. 

Upon returning to the garrison, though, the Shepherds’ captain was nowhere to be found. She hated to delay the inevitable longer than necessary...but, if nothing else, his absence gave her time to consider her words again, and to put a few things in order. Making her way through several rooms, the tactician rolled up the various maps she’d consulted and copied before returning them to their homes, replaced the ink and parchment she’d used with fresh stock, gathered up the books she’d borrowed to be reshelved…and by the time she made her way back to the common, she could hear Chrom’s laughter in the room ahead. 

He looked up as she entered, and his grin made her heart twist. This might well be the last time she saw the prince, too, unless he elected to see her off the next morning. But she mustered the best smile she could, tucking the texts under one arm to return his wave of greeting. Moving toward the bookcases along the far wall, she heard the captain excuse himself from his conversation with Sully and Stahl, and again tried to rally her nerves as he moved to stand beside her. “Good evening, Captain,” she murmured. 

“Good evening, Robin,” Chrom chuckled, leaning against the shelves. “How are you?”

“Oh, well enough,” she replied, checking the title imprinted on the spine of her tome and slotting it into place among the others. 

“That sounds ominous.”

Her lips twitched into a weak grin. “Ominous seems a harsh word, but...I’m afraid that I need to take leave of the Shepherds,” she sighed, forcing herself to meet the prince’s eye. “If I intend to appeal to the khans for aid, I need to make my way north to the Longfort before the weather gets any worse.”

To her surprise, Chrom did not seem dismayed by the request. Or even surprised. Her brow furrowed slightly as he made a thoughtful noise, drumming his fingers on the shelf beside him and considering her words. “...request denied.”

“...on what grounds?” she ventured warily. 

“I’m afraid it’s just an inopportune time,” he shrugged. “After all, the Shepherds are going to need their tactician when we head for Ferox in the morning.”

Now she could see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Gods, how long had he been planning this? “Captain, you know I’m not asking you to do that,” she protested.

“I know you’re not,” he agreed. “But Emm’s heard rumors that the princess of Plegia is going to Ferox, too, and asked if I could deliver a message in her stead.”

Robin’s heart lodged in her throat as Chrom held up a neatly folded letter, the brand of House Ylisse imprinted in its blue wax seal. Well, that certainly explained where the prince had been this afternoon: the Exalt must have summoned him shortly after the tactician left to give him this mission. Gods, Emmeryn had orchestrated the perfect opportunity for her -- all she had to do was ask for the missive, tell Chrom everything, explain the circumstances that brought her here, and…

...and what? Even as her fingers twitched, ready to reach for the envelope, something held her back. She wanted so badly to believe that Chrom would understand...but what if this was the one offense he could not forgive? What if, in revealing this secret, she burned the bridges she’d begun to build, and lost the friendships and the warmth that had made her time here feel like home?

“Are you alright?”

Robin flinched as the prince touched her arm, shaking her head. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I just got lost in thought for a moment.”

“That’s not like you. Are you sure you’re alright?” His concern was nearly palpable as she put away the last of her books, paying only cursory attention to where she placed them on the shelves. 

“I’m certain.” She glanced toward him, hating how false her smile felt but wearing it even still as she dusted her hands. “But if we’re leaving in the morning, I’d best plan our route tonight, since I’m certain Frederick will want to review it in advance…”

As she turned, Chrom’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Don’t push yourself too hard,” he murmured. “Try to get some rest before we head out.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” she promised, patting his hand gently. And the prince did not press the matter further, remaining by the bookcases as she made her way out of the common and into the quiet hall beyond. But as the warmth of the fire faded at her back, she silently cursed her cowardice, and prayed that she would find the strength to face the challenges sure to rise in the coming days. 

\-----

The march north proved less difficult than she’d feared. Aside from the cold and the occasional dusting of snow that decorated their tent canvases some mornings, the Shepherds encountered no major setbacks as they made their way toward Ylisse’s border with Ferox. If all went well, they would arrive at the Longfort within the week. 

And with every passing day, it grew harder and harder to maintain the act that everything was alright. 

Chrom had started to notice. Or perhaps he’d always been able to tell, given his concern before they set out. She felt him watching her when they held their morning meetings with Frederick to discuss the route ahead, and he’d begun to pull her aside from the bustle of camp to ask how she fared more frequently. 

She always insisted that she was fine. What else could she do? But the look on his face as they parted ways clearly doubted her words. 

It gnawed at her as she tried to sleep, tossing and turning in her bedroll while the camp quieted around her. Soon the truth would come out, whether she wanted it or not: Chrom’s mission alone made it impossible to deter him from crossing the Feroxi border, and once she met the khans, she would have to reveal herself to begin the negotiations. And how much more would it hurt for him to learn that way, and have their friendship end because of her cowardice on top of her secrecy? 

No. Better to face him and have it end on her own terms. 

Rousing herself from the blankets, Robin slipped out into the night, glancing toward the fire where Frederick sat on watch before ducking out of sight and making her way toward the captain’s tent. She could still see light inside, which seemed vaguely heartening; drawing in an unsteady breath, the tactician swallowed back the lump in her throat...and before she lost her nerve, she forced herself to speak. “Chrom?”

“Robin?” 

She heard him stir, and breathed a slow sigh. “Can I come in?”

“Of course -- yes, please, come in,” the prince called. He was on his feet when she moved inside, gesturing toward one of the cushions by the bedroll. She settled carefully where he indicated, folding her hands in her lap as he sat down across from her...and once again, she mustered up her courage to do what had to be done. 

“Thank you for seeing me,” she began, idly rubbing the back of her hand. “I apologize for coming so late.”

“Don’t apologize,” Chrom insisted. “You know I always enjoy seeing you. What’s on your mind?”

Too many things. Gods, how could she even begin? She’d been struggling with this for so long, and she still hadn’t found the words that felt right, that would make this easier to bear…

...but if she didn’t do _something,_ she’d lose her chance. And that would be far worse. 

“The letter from your sister to the princess of Plegia,” she began. 

“Yes? What about it?” 

“I’d ask you to give it to me.”

“What? You don’t trust me to get it to Ferox safely?” he demanded (though she was rather amused to see him surreptitiously check the pouch at his side to be sure he did, in fact, still have it). 

“Far from it,” she replied, shaking her head. “Giving it to me will fulfill your mission.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Emm insisted that I had to give it to the princess of Plegia, and no one else.”

“I know,” she murmured, removing the vambrace on her right arm and holding her hand up for him to see. “And that’s why I’m asking for it.”

He did not speak, and the weight of that silence crushed the breath from her lungs; she felt his gaze fix on her six-eyed brand, and forced herself to keep still rather than concealing it again. After a moment, he moved slightly closer, the tips of his fingers brushing across the mark, as though to be sure it was real...but when he sat back, the look of betrayal she had so long expected did not cross his face.

“Princess Robin of Plegia,” he said, seeming to test the words. She nodded, lowering her hand and folding her fingers over the brand. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“...I didn’t know how you’d react,” she confessed, staring down at her hands. “Finding out that your tactician is actually a Plegian royal and didn’t tell you for months...seemed like something you might not take kindly to.”

“Why?”

She looked up in shock, and found him staring at her with equal surprise. “Be...because I hid something so important. Every time I considered of telling you, the thought always ended with...with you either casting me out or turning your back on me, because how could you possibly trust someone who would hide something like that from you? How could you still _respect_ someone willing to conceal such a vital piece of information? How could you put any faith in me, as a tactician or as a _friend,_ after I left you unaware of this?” Her shoulders shook, even as she fought to remain still--

Chrom’s arm slipped around her as he settled by her side, drawing her into a gentle half-embrace. “You weren’t doing it out of spite, were you?” he asked. 

“Of course not--”

“Then why would I be upset? You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I mean -- yes, this is a surprise, and Frederick is going to _kill_ me when he finds out I’ve been using a princess as a tactician -- but...why should I be angry about that? It’s your decision if, and when, to talk about this or anything else. I can’t get upset at you for keeping a secret like that.”

She glanced up at him, feeling the dread that had so long gripped her heart begin to ease. “You’re sure you’re not angry?” she whispered. 

“Of course I am,” he grinned, tightening his hold comfortingly. “You had your reasons for keeping it quiet. But I am glad you told me -- it means I can finally give you this.” Digging into the pouch at his side, the prince removed the Exalt’s letter, beaming as he offered it to her...and she felt the faintest smile creep back onto her face as she accepted it, breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment to read the message inside:

By order of Exalt Emmeryn of House Ylisse, the Shepherds under the command of Prince Chrom of House Ylisse are hereby granted unto the service of Princess Robin of Plegia, to command as she deems necessary for the purposes of reclaiming security for her nation. 

Her brows rose in shock as she perused the letter a second time, only to find that she had not misread the words. “Did you know about this?” she asked, holding the parchment out to the captain. He frowned, taking it from her hand and scanning through it...and as he read it through again, more carefully, she saw his grin brighten. “I never asked for military aid,” the tactician insisted.

“And you don’t have to use it,” Chrom pointed out. “But I can’t say I’m disappointed, either. Even if you don’t need my help...I’ll be glad to stay by you.”

A curious sort of warmth swelled in her chest as she leaned against the prince, taking the missive back and tucking it into her pocket with her maps. As her hands settled in her lap, Chrom reached out to touch the mark again, gently tracing the branches with a fingertip. “So does this run in your family?” he asked. 

“The Eyes?” she murmured.

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Yes -- how much do you know about Plegia?”

“Besides the Grima worship?”

“Besides the Grima worship,” she agreed, feeling a grin tug at her lips.

“...not much, beyond what you told me about Grima’s Night,” the prince confessed, looking rather sheepish. “I didn’t even know Plegian royalty had a brand like House Ylisse does.”

“They don’t. Not exactly, at least -- it...gets a bit complicated. And it’s late.”

“I’m not tired,” he offered. 

Well, at the moment, neither was she. “Are you willing to endure a history lesson?”

“I think I can manage,” he laughed.

“...well, if you’re sure, then...I suppose we should start at the beginning: Grima’s Fall.”

“Where the first Exalt defeated the Fell Dragon, with Naga’s guidance. Right?” he asked. 

“Exactly,” she nodded. “But before that battle -- before the fall...it’s said that Grima passed unto His people the Eyes to help them find their way once He could no longer guide them. In life, each pair of Grima’s eyes was dedicated to a different purpose: the first pair allowed Him to see the minds of men, read their thoughts and know their plans; the second pair allowed Him to see the talents of men, gauge their movements and predict their actions; and the last pair allowed Him to see the hearts of men, know their true intentions and understand what they hold dearest.”

She ran one fingertip over the mark, carefully ordering her thoughts. “Before His fall, each of His followers was granted one pair of Eyes, along with the roots to ground them. The first pair, at the top of the brace, are the Eyes of Wisdom, granting a keen mind and deep insight,” she explained, rubbing the topmost eyes with her thumb before touching the middle set. “The second pair are the Eyes of Strength, granting physical or magical prowess. And the final pair are the Eyes of Devotion, granting empathy and fortitude of will.” She lingered a moment over the final marks, tracing the twining roots before settling her hands back in her lap. “The Eyes were intended to see Grima’s people through the bleak times ahead, once He could no longer protect them. And they endured long after His fall, fading or strengthening as they were passed down through different lines. Most Plegians have no Eyes at all, or perhaps only the brace. Two Eyes, or one pair, are uncommon; four Eyes -- two pairs -- are quite rare; and three pairs are...unheard-of. But it’s believed that within the Six-Eyes beats the Heart of Grima. And since Plegia is a theocracy...well, when the Six-Eyes appeared, it was only natural for her to be successor to the throne, once she attained her majority.”

“...but something went wrong,” Chrom remarked, taking her hand gently and stroking the brand with his thumb. 

“That seems an understatement,” she snorted. “For centuries, without Grima or any trace of His Heart, rule has fallen to one chosen by diviners, who read their signs and select the person who will become Grima’s Voice unto His people. It’s always someone with more Eyes, so when one king dies, all of those with the greatest blessings to be found -- usually Four Eyes -- gather in the capital, and the diviners choose among them. The last king had two pairs, and ruled for many years...but in the twilight of his reign, the Heart of Grima was born into the world. Of course, there was no possible way that a newborn babe could take the throne, so after a great deal of debate, the king of Plegia and the Grimleal hierophant came to an accord: when the Six-Eyes reached her eighteenth year and attained her majority, she would ascend the throne as Plegia’s queen; should the reigning king die before that time, a regent would temporarily lead the nation, chosen as per tradition by the king’s diviners.

“Things were quiet, for a while,” she murmured. “The war with Ylisse ended, Plegia began to recover...my mother raised me in the capital, taught me about magic, and music, and books, and...I was happy. I didn’t think much about what would happen in the future, what my life would be like when I got older, or what it would be like to be queen. But when I was ten years old, my mother fell ill and passed into Grima’s embrace. And...then my training began in earnest. Tactics, history, swordplay, astronomy, alchemy, diplomacy -- anything and everything that might prove useful was forced into the regimen, and everything deemed unnecessary was excised. And then, about five years ago, the king passed, and the diviners chose the regent to rule in the last years of my minority. They selected a man that the last king and his council had favored, and...that was where all the trouble really began. Gangrel enjoyed power, once he had so much of it at his command, and he decided he didn’t want to give it up when the transition arrived. So a year ago, around the last Grima’s Night, he staged a coup to prevent the Six-Eyes from taking the throne.”

“And that’s how you ended up here in Ylisse?”

“Effectively, yes,” she sighed, leaning against him as his arm tightened around her. “My uncle had seen the warning signs -- tensions between Gangrel and the hierophant had been on the rise for years, so by the time the breaking point arrived, he was prepared. He got me out of the city by a secret route, in the hopes that by escaping, I could find a way to put the conflict to rest and bring a lasting peace to Plegia. I’d been planning to go to Ferox first, but Gangrel’s forces were so concentrated along those routes that I couldn’t find a way through. So I decided to go east instead, try to meet with the Exalt, and proceed north from there -- though I met with some bad luck at the border and ran afoul of Gangrel’s men, which is...how we met, really: I exhausted myself escaping them and collapsed, those mercenary soldiers decided to take out their frustrations on Southtown, I helped clean up the mess I’d made, and…then ended up as the Shepherds’ tactician. Which was not how I’d expected my day to go, but I won’t complain about how it turned out.”

“Well, that’s good,” Chrom chuckled. “I’m pretty pleased with the outcome, myself.” 

As she turned to grin up at him, the lamp sputtered behind them, its light fading as the flame burned the final dregs of oil. “I think that’s enough history for one night,” she said, taking to her feet. “We should both get some sleep if we intend to get an early start tomorrow.”

“I can walk you back to your tent, if you’d like,” the prince offered. 

“That’s alright,” she assured him as he began to rise. “I think I can find my way alone. Good night.”

“Sleep well, Robin,” he replied. Pushing aside the tent flap...the tactician paused, glancing over her shoulder. Chrom looked questioningly back at her, bracing his hand on the ground beside him. “Did you change your mind?”

She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “No, I didn’t. Get some rest. Pleasant dreams, Chrom.”

Slipping out into the dark, the tactician navigated her way back to her own tent, careful to keep to the shadows to evade Frederick’s ever watchful eye. And as she bundled herself into her bedroll to escape the chill night air, the last of her anxieties quieted, and sleep finally settled over her. 

\-----

Robin woke slowly in the predawn darkness, and as her warm drowse gradually gave way to clearer thought, she felt a familiar, loathsome prickle of fear. Had that conversation with Chrom really happened, or had she only dreamt it? It seemed too easy, when she thought about it now -- could she have just imagined it, perhaps fallen asleep thinking through the words, and her mind continued to twist the thoughts from there into some fantasy? She’d certainly had coherent dreams before, and ones that felt all too real upon waking…

Rousing herself from her bedroll, she pulled the parchment from her inner pocket and cursing the poor light. She could barely make out the shadow of her hand in front of her face, so reading anything on the pages would be impossible; tucking them back into her coat, she wrapped it closer around her and ventured out into the gloom toward the heart of camp. 

The fire had already been stoked, and Chrom and Sully sat side by side in its light. The prince smiled at her as she approached...and as she drew a breath to speak, he greeted her playfully as ‘Your Highness.’

That alone proved that it hadn’t been a dream. 

In spite of her warning look, though, the damage was done: Sully immediately latched onto the title, and by the time they reached the Longfort nearly every member of the Shepherds had adopted it in conversation with her (with the exception of Frederick, who refused to use such titles on anyone besides Chrom or Lissa; and Gaius, who stubbornly insisted on addressing her as ‘Bubbles’). Their arrival at the border drew shouts from atop the wall before the Feroxi general strode out to greet them, at which point the Ylissean forces found themselves embroiled in a fierce argument that swiftly came to blows when the prince revealed their purpose in coming: after all, who besides a spy would know when foreign delegates were traveling to another land? But while Chrom’s brand did not satisfy her, the militia’s combat skills (guided by their tactician’s keen strategies) won them both the battle and the general’s grudging trust. 

The rest of the journey by horse-drawn wagon was blessedly short after a fortnight spent on the march, and in spite of the bumpy ride and cramped quarters, Robin still managed to rally her arguments for the discussions ahead. Arriving outside the Feroxi’s central stronghold, the Shepherds staggered out into the ankle-deep snow, stretching their legs gratefully after the long ride...and within moments, Chrom made his way to her side. “Gods, I’m starting to miss Ylissean carriages,” he grumbled, rolling his hunched shoulders.

“Was it really that bad?” the tactician laughed. The prince gave her a withering look, drawing in a breath to speak--

Only to stagger as a woman with light blonde hair and wind-chaffed skin leaned against his shoulder, her brassy laughter seeming to echo in the open air. “Oh, lighten up, Prince Chrom.”

The captain started, but managed to avoid sprawling into the snow. Robin buried her own giggles in her sleeve as he glanced helplessly toward her before turning to address the unfamiliar woman. “Hello...are you the khan?”

“Indeed, I am,” she grinned, stepping back and offering her hand. “Flavia of the East. It’s an honor to have a prince in our company.”

“Soon enough we’ll have a princess, to boot,” a low voice rumbled. Flavia rolled her eyes as a broad-shouldered man strode up beside her, his pate gleaming in the weak sunlight as he surveyed the company. “Basilio of the West,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to Chrom, “Khan Regnant of Regna Ferox.”

“It’s an honor,” the prince replied, taking the man’s hand and wincing at his crushing grip. “So the Plegian delegation hasn’t arrived yet?”

“That should be them now,” the man said, nodding toward the wagon rolling up from the opposite direction. A sudden thrill of excitement ran through the tactician as the horses came to a stop, snorting and stamping in the chill. 

“So who’s coming, anyway?” Chrom asked. 

“My uncle, for one,” she replied quietly. “And...well, I suppose they’re technically retainers, but one might as well be my brother -- you’ll know him when you see him,” she grinned. 

“That doesn’t bode well,” he muttered back as the door opened and three figures piled out into the shallow drifts: a berserker with a greying beard and a scar across one eye, a young woman with dark hair and a dour expression...and a wiry, pale-haired young man with an ear-to-ear grin. For a moment he looked around in awe, wrapping his cloak around him and turning in circles to take in the snowy landscape, and it was everything Robin could do not to call out to him…

...but soon enough, his gaze fell on the Shepherds, and he broke into a whole-hearted smile. _“Robin!!”_ he shouted, bolting across the narrow distance and flinging himself into her arms with enough force to knock them both to the ground. “It’s been _forever_ since I’ve seen you I’ve missed you so _so SO MUCH,”_ he chattered, burying his face in her coat and rendering the rest of his words incoherent. 

“Well. He seems friendly,” the prince remarked. 

“I’ve missed you, too, Henry,” she laughed, hugging him tight as he snuggled closer. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you, it felt like we couldn’t get here soon enough...c-can you let me up, though? It’s cold down here.”

“No,” Henry mumbled, cuddling still more insistently. “Don’t wanna. Missed you.”

“Henry, come on. It’s not like I vanished, we’ve been talking for months.”

“That’s _writing,_ it’s _different!”_

“...alright, that’s a fair point,” she conceded. While Henry continued to nestle deeper, though, she heard the heavy crunch of boot steps approach...before the berserker reached down, picking the dark mage up -- and much to her own surprise, Henry’s grip pulled Robin up along with him. Setting the both of them down on their feet, the man gently brushed snow off the back of her coat, a fond smile touching his scarred face as he looked down at her. “It’s good to see you again, Your Highness.”

Robin beamed, hugging Henry tight. “I’m glad to see you, too, Uncle Mustafa,” she said, ignoring the shocked silence around them. “Did you have any trouble at the border?”

“Nope!” Henry piped up, the words faintly muffled in her hair. “Everybody thought Tharja was you.”

“Your giggling certainly didn’t help, though,” the dark-haired woman growled at her fellow mage, stalking up to join the rest of the assembly. “We’re all very pleased to see you well, Your Highness,” she added, her voice dropping to a low purr as she curtsied--

“Alright, now wait just _one godsdamn minute!”_

Robin jumped at Basilio’s booming roar, briefly thankful that Henry’s presence kept her from reaching for the tome in her coat. No need to cause a diplomatic incident. “My men informed me that the Plegian princess was arriving from the _West Gate._ You lot arrived from the _East Gate,”_ he stated, gesturing to the tactician and the Ylissean Shepherds. “Which one of you is the woman I’m to talk treaty with?”

“That would be me,” Robin replied, squirming in the dark mage’s grip and managing to remove her right vambrace, holding up her arm to display her brand. “I trust this will suffice as proof?”

The West Khan’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. “That’ll do it,” he agreed, extending his hand in greeting. “...not a bad tactic, either, sending a dummy to divert attention.”

“Thank you, sir,” she smiled. “I have been getting quite a bit of field training lately, where strategy is concerned.” She winked at Chrom, who grinned back at her as she took firm hold of Basilio’s wrist. “And I do appreciate your consideration, opening your borders for us to meet. We’re prepared to discuss terms at your earliest convenience.”

“Good to hear,” the West Khan chuckled, patting Robin’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble. “What say we get right to it, then, shall we?”

“By all means,” she agreed. “Might I invite the Shepherds’ captain to join us? The Exalt of Ylisse has kindly entrusted the militia’s skills to our cause, so it seems only right that he should take part.”

“I’ve got no issue with that,” Basilio nodded. 

“The more the merrier, I say,” Flavia grinned, clapping Chrom hard on the back. If nothing else, he seemed to expect it this time, and weathered the friendly blow without flinching before following the khans’ lead into the fortress. Though the narrow windows allowed only meager light into the stronghold, braziers burned away the darkness and warmed the bitter chill as they moved through the curving halls; while a force of Feroxi guardsmen led the rest of the Shepherds off for a warm meal, Basilio and Flavia escorted the emissaries into a well-lit meeting room with maps and weapons displayed on every wall. 

As they took their seats, Robin inhaled a deep, steadying breath. She’d been preparing for this. She was ready. 

Gods, she hoped she was ready. 

“So. Princess Robin,” Basilio began. “Let’s get right to it. I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on the situation down south: Gangrel’s after your head because you’re a threat to his power grab, the head of the church is fighting him tooth and nail, and now you’re here lookin’ for military aid for the religious side fighting under your banner.”

“Not quite.”

The man’s brow furrowed as she folded her hands on the table before her. “You are correct in that Gangrel would sooner see me dead than cede the crown, and that the Grimleal hierophant has rallied troops to oppose him. But I am not here on his behalf, nor the usurper king’s. I am here on behalf of the Plegian people to put this conflict to rest once and for all, with as little bloodshed as possible.”

Basilio frowned, leaning back in his seat. “...correct me if I’ve been misinformed: you’re the hierophant’s daughter, as I understand. You’re here to mount a force against him, too?”

A thin smile cut across her face. “Again, you are correct. My father has no interest in protecting the people of Plegia: this war proves it, for his power and influence could have sheltered the citizens within the capital, and instead he mounted an army to wage a war that has left the city in ruins and its people homeless, starving, and afraid. I have no interest in helping him fight his selfish battles, and I have no interest in letting Gangrel run mad with the power presently at his command, which he’s used to quash any and all opposition or dissent. This brand,” she insisted, holding her hand up again, “marked me from birth as the next ruler of Plegia. I must answer to her people, protect them from danger within and beyond her borders, for my duty as queen will be to them. And at present, the greatest danger to Plegia’s people comes from Gangrel and the hierophant.”

She caught her uncle’s approving smile out of the corner of her eye as Flavia rested her chin on her knuckles, quirking one eyebrow at the tactician. “I like the attitude. But that sounds like a lot of manpower.”

“Perhaps not as much as you;d imagine. General Mustafa?” Robin prompted. 

The berserker nodded, removing a folded slip of parchment from a pouch at his side. “I’ve been a general in the Plegian army since well before this war began, and Gangrel trusts command of his forces to me,” the man explained. “But I’ve been the defender of Grima’s Heart since her birth, and Validar expects that my loyalty is to him as the champion of the Six-Eyes’ cause. I have walked among the soldiers in both camps, and found that many believe in the Heart over their commanders, following Gangrel out of fear or Validar in the belief that he serves her. When the time is right, they will turn their arms to our cause: four battalions of the six between them, allied to our side.”

“We need only enough Feroxi soldiers to present a show of force,” the tactician continued as he handed the page to Basilio, who nodded curtly before scanning the figures her uncle had collected. “And we do not expect Ferox to provide support as a favor alone. My current position, sadly, prevents me from offering more than a promise at present; however, should we prove victorious, once I am crowned as queen of Plegia I will have the resources at my disposal to repay you for your aid. Plegia’s mines are as rich in iron as gold, and the trade that has been so disrupted by this war will have every cause to be renewed as reconstruction efforts begin in earnest. I’m certain that we can work out a fair agreement to the benefit of both our nations.”

A year of planning, of careful coordination within the enemy ranks, had led to this. Gods, let it be enough. 

The khans glanced at one another, apparently considering the proposal. While Robin knew Basilio’s position as Khan Regnant permitted him alone to approve such a treaty, Flavia still had the power to advise or debate his decisions. So long as she’d managed to get one of them on her side, she had a chance…

“I think something can be arranged,” the West Khan announced, folding the parchment and tucking it out of sight. 

And in an instant, the fear that had gripped her for so long began to ease. They had not succeeded in their goals yet, but this was certainly a stride in the right direction. And just as she had when the Exalt agreed to allow refugees asylum within the halidom, the tactician felt a stirring of hope for the future. 

As the khans rose and left the room, her uncle’s hand settled on her shoulder. “A moment, Your Highness, if I may. Privately,” he added as Chrom, Henry, and Tharja approached. 

“Of course -- go ahead, we’ll catch up,” the tactician insisted, gesturing them on. Though Henry immediately set to whining, his fellow mage took hold of his cloak and pulled him along behind her, and the prince waved as he followed in their wake, leaving Robin and the berserker alone in the meeting hall. “I think that went well,” she offered, tucking her hands into her pockets. 

“I’d agree. You handled yourself well, Little Bird.”

She beamed at the familiar address, tucking a lock of pale hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Uncle Mustafa.”

He smiled fondly at her...but even as she watched, his cheer faded. “Your Highness. ...Little Bird. There is something you must hear. Something you need to know about your father’s intentions with this war.”

Her high spirits began to flag, a troubled frown replacing her own grin. “Does he intend to claim the throne for himself?” she ventured. 

“No,” the berserker muttered, shaking his head. “It’s...I’m afraid it’s far worse.”

Her heart twisted. “What is it?”

The man drew in a slow breath, stroking his beard as he collected his own thoughts. “You know that I have served your family well for many years. Your mother, before she joined Grima; your father; and you, since the day you were born. I have always known that you would lead Plegia to an age of peace. You were born with Grima’s Heart. It is your destiny. And I believed...when your father began your training, that he sought to ensure that your mind and body were fit and ready when your transition arrived, that you might be prepared when you ascended the throne. I thought...that even this war was to assure your rule, and unseat the usurper. I thought…”

A chill crawled down her spine. “What’s this about, Uncle?”

When he looked to her, the fear and sorrow in his eyes stole her breath. “He has no intention of letting you take the throne, or of claiming it himself. These last ten years since your mother’s passing, he has been honing your body that another power might fill it. He has trained you only that you might be a fitting vessel for Grima’s soul. Two years past -- the night of the coup -- he had planned to sacrifice every Grimleal attending the invocation for the sake of a ritual to awaken Grima within you.”

A wave of nauseous horror swept over her, closing her throat as she stared at the warrior’s scarred face. 

“I heard him speak the words himself,” Mustafa continued. “That your eighteenth year should have heralded Grima’s awakening, and that even though the ritual could not be completed as planned that night, with every day that passes Grima’s power grows, ready to be called into you. And he intends, now, that the battlefield where his forces meet Gangrel’s men will be the next sacrificial stage.”

Two armies’ worth of shed blood, spilled on Plegian soil. Gods, the power of such a ritual could rend mountains…

“Why are you telling me this?” she breathed. 

“Because I cannot bear to see that fate for you, Little Bird.”

The berserker reached out, resting his hands on the tactician’s narrow shoulders. “I did not raise you so that your father could slaughter his own people and conquer nations to satisfy his own lust for power. I raised you that you might lead us to peace, as Grima’s great heart returned to His people. I do not know all your father’s plans -- I doubt anyone does, beyond himself -- but I am certain he will use any means to achieve his ends. You must be vigilant.”

She forced a smile, touching her uncle’s hand gently. “I will. I have no intention of letting him see through whatever he may be plotting. But thank you for warning me.”

He nodded, relief finally easing the worried lines of his face. As he turned to guide her from the room, though, she moved toward one of the maps along the wall, waving him on ahead. “I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to take a look.”

“Of course,” he chuckled. She stared at the chart without interest, listening instead to the warrior’s steps retreating from the room…

...and as they faded to silence, she turned her back to the wall, sliding to the floor and burying her face in her hands. All the time she’d spent planning, preparing for this moment, knowing that she must turn on her father in so doing...and now she found that he’d been doing just the same, laying out a trap to betray her. 

Her eyes burned as she hid her face in her sleeves. “Gods, I really am no better than my father.”

\-----

She fought back her despair in little enough time. Not because it abated, but because she had to: she’d promised her uncle she would not be long, and someone was bound to suspect something was wrong if she didn’t move quickly. Scrubbing her face with the hem of her sleeve, Robin pulled her hood up over her head to conceal any lingering trace of her desolation before moving out into the hall. She didn’t know her way around the fortress, but if nothing else, its layout seemed straightforward: long halls with stairs between the levels, more rooms than branching passageways--

“There you are!”

She looked up at the call, mustering a smile as Chrom strode toward her. “I was starting to worry that you got lost.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong, since I don’t know where I’m going,” she replied, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. But if the prince noticed anything amiss, he said nothing, walking alongside her through the stone passageways. His presence alone was comforting, even when they did not speak, and she tried to put aside the miserable truth for at least a moment to enjoy his company--

“Your Highness!”

They both jumped as Mustafa charged toward them, his expression set in a grave frown. “What’s wrong, Uncle?” she asked. 

“Trouble’s brewing,” he growled, gesturing for them to follow as he headed back the way he’d come. Robin fell into step behind him with Chrom keeping close at her side; winding their way up several flights of narrow stairs, they finally arrived on the stronghold’s battlements where both khans already stood with Henry and Tharja, staring out across the snowy landscape while the dark mages sifted frantically through their hexing materials. 

“You were _supposed_ to be scrying for spies following us, Tharja!” Henry babbled, throwing a few crow feathers and toad eyes onto the focal points of his array. 

“I _have_ been!” she snarled back, holding up her scrying glass. “Nothing’s showing up at _all,_ how in Grima’s name do you expect me to tell you about what I’m not seeing--”

“Enough!” the berserker snapped. Their bickering immediately fell silent, Tharja turning her attention back to the mirror while Henry hurriedly finished his spell. Robin moved to the edge of the roof, staring out at the dark shapes moving through the drifts as Henry’s chant echoed behind her. She felt the magic sweep past with the curious sensation of feathers brushing across her skin, watched the ripple in the air fan out across the waste below and blow through the encroaching strangers’ party--

A shrill scream rose from the scrying glass in Tharja’s hands. “What in the gods’ names is that!?” Basilio demanded. 

“They had scrying wards,” she hissed, running her fingertips over the silver face to silence it. 

Moving away from the battlements, the tactician leaned in for a closer look at the image in the mirror. “Twelve men,” she muttered. “Judging from their armor and weapons, they look to be assassins. ...and a sorcerer. A powerful one.” Which explained how they’d evaded Tharja’s sight. 

“How the fuck did they get past the Longfort?” Flavia demanded. 

“Magic or hexcraft would be my guess,” Robin replied, wrapping her arms around Henry’s shoulders as he pressed himself into her arms. “It’s alright, it wasn’t your fault…”

“B-but we led them right _to_ you and they’re gonna try to hurt you a-and…”

“We won’t let that happen.”

She started, turning toward Chrom as he touched his sword hilt. “We’ve been given leave to fight for you. I think now seems a good time to start,” he remarked. 

“...and we won’t see much trade if the princess we struck a deal with dies,” the west khan muttered under his breath. “Sound the horns, upstart!” 

Flavia rolled her eyes, but did not hesitate to see through his command. The deafening blast shook snow from the stronghold’s walls as the Shepherds and Plegians alike gathered in the drifts beyond, watching the hazy figures approaching through the whipping wind. She could feel the arcane energy tingling across her skin as the gusts tugged at their clothes -- no doubt the sorcerer’s work, trying to obscure their progress now that they’d been detected. 

The prince’s brows rose as she made her way to his side with tome in hand. “Are you sure you shouldn’t be back in the fortress?” he asked. “It’s you they want.”

“I can’t let the Shepherds go off into battle without their tactician,” Robin scoffed. “After all, isn’t that why my request for leave was denied?”

“...you make a fine point,” he chuckled. “Alright, then -- lead on.”

As the rest of the soldiers crowded close to hear over the howling wind, Robin put her thoughts in order. “The Feroxis are mobilizing now and will provide reinforcements. Ours will be the first charge to meet the enemy: we counted twelve men in the scrying glass, mostly assassins, but at least one mage. Given the wind and the low visibility, we’re not likely to see bows, so expect swords to be the enemy’s weapon of choice and pair off accordingly. Vaike, Uncle Mustafa, you’ll act as the rear guard -- keep an eye on the fighting and assist if someone is in distress. Be careful out there, and watch each other’s backs: these are swift opponents who prefer sneak attacks to direct confrontation, so you’ll need to be on alert.”

Chrom nodded, lifting his head to survey the troops. “Are we clear?” She saw them nod in agreement, beginning to pair off as the prince unsheathed his holy blade. “Then move out!”

They scattered into the blinding gale, their forms swiftly becoming no more than hazy shadows in the poor light. As Chrom started off into the wind, Robin felt a tug on her sleeve; looking back, she saw Henry huddling close beside her, twisting the fabric of her coat between his hands. “Can I come with you?” he mumbled. 

She smiled gently, pulling him into a brief hug. “I’ll be alright, Henry. And so will you. The Shepherds are good people -- they’ve helped keep me safe while I’ve been gone, and now they’re going to need your magic to help see them through this.”

“...yours, too?” he asked. 

“Mine, too,” she agreed. “And Tharja’s, if we’re all together, it puts everyone else at more risk. So will you help them?”

The dark mage sniffled, glancing thoughtfully over his shoulder...and finally pulled back, nodding reluctantly. “Don’t get hurt, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised. “Take care out there.”

Hurrying off into the wind, the tactician was pleased to find that Chrom hadn’t made it too far ahead. He glanced at her, offering a smile rife with relief. “I thought you might go off with Henry.”

“Oh, Henry wanted to go off with me,” she chuckled. “But I think his magic will be put to better use elsewhere.”

“I’m glad to have you at my side,” the prince smiled. She tugged her hood down slightly lower over her face, the warmth of those words warring against the dire truth her uncle had imparted on her. Should he trust her so readily -- should she even _be_ here with him? 

“Gods, where did this storm even come from?” she heard him ask, the words whipped away by the gusts. 

“It’s not natural,” she replied, raising her voice to be heard over the storm. “More than likely, that sorcerer’s to blame. Keep your guard up.” 

The intermittent crash of blades sounded through the gale as they advanced. The faint glow of Chrom’s blade led them on, making the snowflakes shimmer as they blew past. “Should we have seen something by now?” he called, shielding his face with his arm. She frowned, lifting the peak of her hood slightly--

Golden light flashed in the dark ahead. 

Grabbing Chrom’s arm, Robin dragged the prince out of the way an instant before a fireball crashed into the place they’d stood, hissing violently and scattering sparks through the drifts. Lifting her hand, the tactician called up her own spell, summoning the swirling winds to flow back the way they’d come, leaving -- however briefly -- a patch of calm between themselves and the man whose skull helm grinned out of the gloom.

“Not bad, Six-Eyes,” a hollow voice called, carrying easily over the still air. “Just what I’d expect from Grima’s Heart. But we can’t allow the dragon to rise again -- your heart was quelled once, fellblood, and so it shall be again!” 

The circles blazed around him, and Robin shoved Chrom aside before leaping out of the way herself as the next spell seared through the drift between them. She glanced toward the prince, who nodded in silent agreement before shifting his stance, picking his way through the snow to circle around the mage...

The enemy’s laughter sent a chill down her spine. “Do you really think that will save you?” 

The spell’s light rose again, casting eerie shadows across the snow. She saw the flames swirling overhead, condensing into blinding red sun as she called up the wind around her--

The sorcerer turned, and the fire arced through the air toward the prince’s position. 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as her mind processed the scene, icy fear spilling through her as she realized that Chrom could not evade the attack while mired in such deep snow. For just an instant she froze in the face of that terror, desperately searching for an answer, something, _anything…_

The archer in the rafters of the bandit fort flashed across her mind. 

And **something** burned through her veins at that memory.

She would not see the prince fall to her own incompetence a second time. She would not fail again. 

The wind shrieked as it cut across the waste, catching up the fireball and lifting it high into the air. It hovered for a moment, a second sun lighting the snowy landscape, before sinking with gathering speed and finally crashing into the drifts between herself and the sorcerer.

“Is that your best?” the enemy mage scoffed. “The king overestimates his opposition.”

A cold, calm smile cut across her face as the wind swirled into a vortex. As the sorcerer began to chant again, molten fire swirling up from the golden rings around him, the gale howled across the divide, pulling the fire down to splash across its caster. Snarling with rage, the enemy at last turned his attention to her, launching the half-formed mass in her direction -- only for the wind to buffet it off course again, falling into the same crater left by his last foiled attack. And before he could draw breath to lift his chant anew, Chrom drew his sword across the sorcerer’s neck, snatching his tome and casting it off into the drifts. 

“We may need him alive for questioning,” she called as the prince forced the mage to his knees. “Don’t treat him too roughly.” Chrom nodded, keeping his sword trained on the enemy as she moved toward them across the scorched ground--

A sickening crack sounded under her feet. 

She froze, fear putting out the fire in her veins as her gaze darted down to the spiderweb pattern spreading from beneath her feet. 

Looking up, she saw the prince staring back at her. “Robin?” he asked, his voice curiously choked. 

“Don’t move,” she breathed, not daring to raise her voice. Her mind reeled, desperately searching for a way out, and with every panicked heartbeat the web widened around her…

She found no answer.

The ice gave out beneath her, and the overwhelming chill stripped away her senses. She struggled vainly to hold her breath, get her bearings, but the dark and the cold were all she could find. Even as she fought toward what she thought was the surface, her movements felt thick and sluggish, and her chest had begun to burn as the freezing water numbed her to the core.

She couldn’t breathe. It would be her last if she tried, but she could see no way out. Her head swam, her vision wavering as shadows closed in around her. 

Water filled her lungs. 

And as her consciousness faded, she thought she felt something touch her neck, pulling her into the dark.

***

Chrom broke the water’s surface with a gasp, gulping in the frigid air with desperate relief. Hauling Robin up against him, he wrapped one arm tight around her chest to keep her head above water, struggling through the slushy ice as he fought to get the both of them back to solid ground. 

It was not Mustafa who met them at the edge of the sheet, or even Frederick and Lissa, but Miriel and Ricken. Hooking his free arm onto the edge of the thick floe, he passed the tactician up into the mages’ waiting hands before dragging himself out of the water, shivering uncontrollably as he sprawled out on the stable ice. 

Gods, he never wanted to do that again. 

Tilting his head, the prince watched as Miriel stretched Robin out at his head, her long fingers touching the tactician’s chin lightly before holding her palm over the young woman’s mouth. He waited, his shaky breaths sharpening as the mage frowned and drew back. 

“I am unable to detect evidence of respiration.”

Chrom did not like the sound of that.

“S-she’s not breathing?” Ricken stammered. 

His heart lodged in his throat. 

In an instant he was back on his hands and knees beside them, listening to Miriel’s incomprehensible narration and watching frantically as she rolled up her sleeves, removed her hat, and pressed an ear to Robin’s chest. “W-what can I do-o?” the prince asked. 

The mage adjusted her spectacles thoughtfully as she sat back, tapping the tactician’s breast with two fingers. “Place your hands here, one overlaying the other, and apply a swift compression.”

Chrom glanced desperately toward Ricken. “Put your hands there and press down hard,” the young mage translated. 

The prince did not hesitate. Placing his curled hands on the spot Miriel indicated, he pressed firmly on Robin’s chest. 

Nothing. 

“You need to apply a greater force,” Miriel chided. 

“I don’t want t-to hurt her--”

“She is rapidly encroaching upon a state where resuscitation will no longer be feasible.”

“She’ll die if you don’t,” Ricken shivered, his face going pale. 

“Gods help me,” Chrom whispered, levering himself up on to his knees and pressing down with all the force he could muster. A horrible cracking sound made both the prince and the young noble cringe instinctively, but Miriel seemed entirely unfazed. 

“Again,” she ordered. The prince obeyed, at once relieved and terrified that the sound did not come a second time. “Again.” Tilting the tactician’s head back, Miriel continued to sound out the rhythm for Chrom to follow, and he willed her eyes to open, her mouth to move, something, _anything--_

She coughed. 

It was a weak sound at best, but he felt her spasm under his hands even still. He pulled back, and Robin coughed again, more violently, twisting onto her side and bringing up a frightening amount of water as her chest heaved. And as he lay an unsteady hand between her quaking shoulders, the prince thanked the gods for their aid. 

“Are you okay?” Ricken asked desperately as she curled on the ice. 

“W-wha-at d-do yo-ou thi-i-ink?” the tactician muttered through chattering teeth. 

“She’s fine,” Chrom laughed. “Do you think you can walk?” he asked gently as the mages took to their feet. She shook her head heavily, wiping at her mouth with a sodden sleeve. “Here,” he murmured, shifting to kneel before her. “I’ll carry you.”

Ordinarily, he knew, she would have protested. But she didn’t seem to have the strength. Instead her trembling arms curled around his shoulders, her body stretching along his back, and he hooked his elbows under her knees to secure her as he rocked to his feet. 

Even soaked to the bone, he hardly noticed her weight. Her drenched clothes seemed heavier than she did, as best he could tell. But he made no remark on it as they trudged through the thin snow to the edge of the ice, where Frederick, Lissa, Mustafa, and both khans stood waiting. 

To his surprise, both Basilio and Flavia gave him a sharper lecture than the great knight as they dragged Robin and himself back to the stronghold. From there, the Feroxi medics took over, bundling prince and tactician off to the infirmary to be stripped down and dunked into steaming tubs of water. Chrom paid only passing attention when the healers picked up the thread of scolding the khans had started, letting the heat seep back into his skin. 

Eventually he was allowed out of the bath, thoroughly dried, and given a set of unfamiliar clothes in place of his usual attire. But he saw no reason to complain as he pulled on the light underclothes and the heavy woolen sweater and trousers, all comfortably warm as though someone had left them sitting before the fire (which, he reasoned, was very likely). And then they settled him in front of the hearth, buried him in blankets, shoved a mug of something scalding into his hands, and left him alone. 

It took Robin a great deal longer to join him. He could hear the Feroxi healers speaking softly behind the screen that blocked her from view, but try as he might he couldn’t parse the words. He considered getting up to ask more than once -- but every time the thought crossed his mind, one of the medics passed by to chide him for not touching his drink, which he hastily tried to correct by taking a sip, only to burn his tongue in the process and lose his opportunity to ask.

But eventually, as the light coming through the narrow windows faded and lamps were lit around the infirmary, a Feroxi woman helped the tactician over to sit by the fire beside him, draping several heavy quilts over her shoulders and pressing a similar mug into her hands. As the healer retreated to tend to other business, Chrom offered a smile, shifting slightly closer to touch his shoulder to hers through the blankets. “Are you okay?” he asked. She made a vague noise, cradling the cup closer and breathing in the steam. “Still cold?”

“Chest hurts,” she mumbled. “Cracked ribs.”

“...sorry about that,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who broke them.” It certainly explained that sickening crack he’d heard…

“If you hadn’t, I might not be here,” she pointed out.

“...I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, basking in the heat of the fire and sipping at the hot, sweet brew in their mugs. When he looked toward her again, he found a distant, troubled look on he face. “What’s wrong?” She shook her head slowly, lifting the cup to her lips and staring into the flames. “No, don’t shake your head. Something’s bothering you.”

“How do you know?” 

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That look like something’s weighing you down. You had it in the infirmary for a while after we stormed that bandit stronghold, and through most of the march up here.”

“...I didn’t think it was that obvious,” she murmured. 

“I’m getting better at spotting it,” he chuckled. “So come on. What’s on you mind?”

“...you won’t like it,” she whispered. 

“Try me,” he shot back.

She did not speak for a few moments, and the lengthening silence was broken only by the crackle of the logs in the hearth. When she finally drew breath to speak, she winced slightly, hunching her shoulders and pulling the mug closer. “I was thinking it might have been better if you hadn’t broken those ribs. Or pulled me out of the water at all.”

His stomach knotted at those words. Struggling to free an arm from the nest of quilts around him, the prince lay a shaky hand on her shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

“Because monsters shouldn’t be saved.”

He could feel her shaking through the blankets, and gently settled his arm around her. “You’re not a monster,” he protested. 

“Yes I am,” she whimpered. “I’m no better than my father, and I don’t wa-ant...I don’t want to become him, I don’t…”

He hushed her quietly, setting his cup aside and shifting to settle at her back, gently wrapping his arms around her. “You’re not your father.”

“I am,” she sniffled. “My uncle...after the meeting with the khans, he told me that...all this time, my father’s been planning to use me as a vessel for Grima’s soul. He’s intended to betray me from the outset, just as I’d been planning to betray him by asking the khans personally for aid, rather than helping him. I’m doing _just_ as he would have done, and I never, ne- _ever_ want to become such a loathsome, vile, selfish wretch of a human--”

“You’re not,” Chrom repeated gently, tucking his nose into her hair. “You’re not your father.”

“How can you say that?” she demanded. 

“Because it’s true. You just proved it, in what you said.” She tilted her head slightly, turning a puzzled look on him as she wiped her red-rimmed eyes. “Why are you asking the khans for aid here?” he pressed. 

“...to end this war,” she mumbled. “To stop Gangrel who’s mad with power, and to stop my father who’s using me as a way to draw more followers to his cause.”

“So this isn’t a selfish act. It’s a necessity, for a greater good than your own. Your father’s plan is a self-serving power grab. See? You’re nothing like him,” he smiled. 

“I’m still doing just what he would have done, though,” she breathed. 

“So?” he shrugged, tucking himself closer around her. “Just because you do some of the same things, or feel some of the same impulses, doesn’t make you the same as him. If it did, then...I’d be just like my father, too.”

She was quiet for a moment as his arms tensed around her. “...your father was responsible for the last war, wasn’t he?” she murmured. 

Chrom nodded, breathing a slow sigh. “He wielded Falchion before me, and used it to wage his war against Plegia. He called it a ‘crusade,’ used his charisma to rally Ylisse’s common people to his cause and his influence to turn the noble houses against one another in vying for his favor. He was a powerful man and a capable leader, yet he nearly destroyed the halidom. My father was not a good man, but all my life, I’ve been told that...I’m just like him. The same strength, the same command, the same charisma...and that’s the _last_ thing I’ve ever wanted. But I’m not my father. I can see parts of him in who I am...but that doesn’t mean I’m him. And the more I can recognize those things that we share, the better I can guard against straying down the same paths. I can be a better man than he was. And so can you: just because you share blood, and just because you’re alike in some ways...that doesn’t mean you’re him, or that you’ll become him. You’re not a monster, Robin,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

He saw her lift a hand to scrub at her face with the hem of her sleeve, sniffling thickly. “Are you still cold?” she mumbled. 

“...a little,” he confessed, confused by the sudden shift in the conversation. 

“Me, too,” she said, putting her cup aside and carefully unwrapping the blankets around her shoulders, pulling them up to cover her chest instead as she snuggled back against him. Smiling softly, he folded his own quilts around her, cocooning them warmly together. “...thank you,” she added softly, tilting her head back to look at him. “For everything.”

“Anything for you,” he chuckled, brushing a teasing kiss to her forehead. 

“ _Anything_ seems excessive.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

He’d never spoken the words aloud before. Never even thought of how to express that feeling he had when she was near. But they tasted sweet on his tongue, and left his chest feeling warm and full. 

She turned to look at him, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as a shy smile tugged at her lips. “...I love you, too,” she said, seeming almost as surprised as he was by the words. And when he leaned close, he felt her laugh as she tilted her head to meet his kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I enjoy fancy fonts a little too much this is so fun~~
> 
> In the style of very old official orders, it seemed fitting for Emmeryn to make a very fancy letter with careful script for this sort of message. She's very much in favor of her brother being happy ~~and helping Robin out, emotionally and otherwise~~ , so I can't help but think she does this sort of thing with fair frequency. In case it's hard to make out, the decree reads as follows:
> 
> By order of Exalt Emmeryn of House Ylisse, the Shepherds under the command of Prince Chrom of House Ylisse are hereby granted unto the service of Princess Robin of Plegia, to command as she deems necessary for the purposes of reclaiming security for her nation.


	5. Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though still recovering from the attempt on her life, Robin refuses to put aside her duties, tackling the planning and preparations necessary for the battle yet to come. Some rather interesting measures are required to make her set aside her stubborn dedication -- but Chrom feels he's up to the challenge of getting the tactician to put her recovery first, no matter how daunting that prospect may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh look more worldbuilding_
> 
> This is a slower chapter, all in all, but I'm still pretty happy with how it came out. I've always found it interesting that Plegia's army has so many wyvern riders, but virtually no pegasus knights (aside from Aversa), while the exact opposite is true of Ylisse, so naturally I had to put thought into it and it got wildly out of hand like most worldbuilding does once I get started. Playing with wyverns turned out to be a lot of fun and I look forward to doing more of it in the future. ;) 
> 
> And as always, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Enjoy!

“I’m not going.”

“Henry, we discussed this.” Not that it seemed to matter to the dark mage cuddled obstinately against Robin’s side. The tactician’s reminder only made him nestle in closer, glowering at Mustafa and Tharja and clearly daring either of them to try moving him. 

“No,” he pouted. “I’m coming with you.”

“But you need to go back with Uncle Mustafa. It’ll make my father suspicious if you don’t,” she pointed out. 

“Don’t care,” he mumbled. “When I left you got hurt, so I’m not leaving again.” 

“That wasn’t something you could have changed, though. Did you know it was a frozen lake?”

“...no,” the mage admitted. 

“There, you see? It was just a bit of bad luck. I really will be okay, Henry,” she insisted. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I won’t worry if I stay here,” he replied. Chrom was strongly reminded of Lissa’s stubborn streak, which made him smile as he watched the ongoing debate.

“If you stay, it puts everything we’re trying to do at risk,” Robin murmured. The mage’s frown deepened, his arms tightening around the tactician as she stroked his hair. “You know as well as I do that my father will try to scry for you if you don’t return. If Uncle Mustafa says you died, he’ll want to know why your body wasn’t brought back for burial. If Uncle says he did bury you somewhere, he’ll expect to find a grave, and it doesn’t make any sense to ward a corpse.”

“...but I don’t want to go,” Henry mumbled into her shoulder. “I was really scared when you fell and didn’t come back up, I don’t want anything bad like that to happen again…”

“What if I promise to protect her?” 

All eyes turned to the prince as he stepped forward, offering the mage a warm smile. “I wasn’t able to keep her from falling,” he admitted. “But I was able to get her out, right? I swear, I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe so you don’t have to worry.”

The tactician blushed, turning her attention down to Henry as he considered Chrom’s offer. After a moment, the mage pulled away, straightening to his full height (which, much to the prince’s surprise, nearly matched his own) as he faced the Shepherds’ captain. “You promise? Cross your heart an’ hope to die, hex you senseless if you lie?”

“Henry,” Mustafa chided. 

“You have my oath,” Chrom agreed, laying a hand over his heart. 

For another moment, the dark mage stared him down, as though waiting for the prince to flinch. But the captain held firm, confidently meeting Henry’s gaze. And at last seeming satisfied, the mage nodded, snuggling close to Robin for a final hug. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “But I promise I’ll write to you every night, and I’ll see you again soon.”

“You’re sure?” he sniffled. 

“I’m certain,” she chuckled, ruffling Henry’s pale hair fondly. “But the sooner you set out, the sooner our plans can be put in motion, and the sooner we’ll be back together for good.”

That finally seemed to get through to the dark mage. Releasing the tactician, Henry offered an earnest, if awkward, salute. “We’d better get going, then!” he laughed. “We’ve got a _hex_ of a long way to go!”

“Henry,” Tharja and Mustafa both groaned (though the prince swore he saw Robin bury a laugh in her sleeve.

“Make sure you write soon, okay?” the mage giggled. 

“I will,” she assured him, patting her coat pocket gently. 

Henry grinned and bounded off toward the waiting wagon while the berserker offered a crisp salute of his own. “Take care, Your Highness. Be sure to rest, try not to get so caught up in your planning that you forget to eat, and remember to see a cleric regularly to be sure you’re healing well.”

“I know, Uncle,” she sighed...but as he relaxed his stance, she moved to embrace the berserker, who folded his arms gently around her in turn. “I’ll miss you.” 

“And I will miss you, Little Bird,” he murmured. “May we meet again soon.“

As the warrior moved to join Henry, the tactician turned to Tharja. “Thank you,” she smiled. “For everything you’ve done: we wouldn’t have made it this far without your help. Take care until we meet again.”

The dark mage’s smile sent a chill down the Chrom’s spine. “It’s been my honor, Your Highness,” she purred, offering a low curtsy. “Farewell -- you’ll be in my thoughts until next we meet.”

As Tharja started toward the wagons, the prince stepped up beside Robin. “Does she unsettle you, or is it just me?” he asked quietly. 

“Oh, it’s not just you,” the tactician muttered. “Obsessive doesn’t even begin to describe Tharja. You’d best be careful about that promise you made: you’ll have to answer to both of them if you break it.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I plan to keep my word, then,” he chuckled, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “We should probably get going, too. Shall we be off, Your Highness?”

“Gods, don’t start that again,” she groaned, leaning against him as he turned toward the wagons waiting to carry the Shepherds east. Climbing inside the closest one, he offered his hand to help Robin up...and frowned when she hesitated, looking past him through the open door. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly as he glanced toward his sister and their stone-faced warden seated on the bench behind him. 

“Of course. You don’t mind, do you?” he prompted, turning to Lissa and Frederick. 

“Not a bit!” the princess giggled. The great knight made a noncommittal noise, but offered no objections -- which Chrom took to mean that Lissa had finally managed to argue him into submission. She had brought up a good point that morning, after all: the tactician was still recovering, and it would be best if she traveled with the cleric. 

Seeming at least vaguely reassured, Robin accepted the prince’s hand, and he helped her carefully up the high step into the wagon. Closing the door, Chrom took his seat beside the tactician as they began to move...and when she leaned her head against his shoulder and began to drowse, the prince gently slipped his arm around her waist (ignoring his sister’s squeal of delight as he did) and settled in for the long ride. 

He must have fallen asleep at some point. Chrom roused as the convoy rolled to a halt outside the Longfort gates sometime after sunset, less because of the bumpy stop than the sudden absence of the warm weight tucked against his side. And as Frederick opened the wagon door, the prince briefly stretched his cramped limbs before helping Robin out into the snowy evening.

The Feroxi border guard thankfully had room enough to put them up for the night, and wasted no time in dragging the tactician off for a quick examination before dinner. She still spoke less than normal and lacked her usual appetite (though she did return for seconds of dessert, which seemed somewhat heartening), but he was glad to see even small signs of recovery after the hectic week she’d spent in the khans’ stronghold. He couldn’t blame her uncle for pressing those final reminders on her, when even cracked ribs hadn’t stopped her from working in Ferox. 

Come sunrise, after a few brief meetings and hearty breakfast to see them off, the Shepherds made their way out into the dim morning to prepare for their southward march. As the captain made his way toward the gates, Robin fell into step beside him, her coat wrapped tight around her to stave off the cold. “Good morning, Chrom,” she murmured, her breath billowing in the chill air.

“Good morning, Robin,” he replied, drawing his cape around her shoulders and grinning at the color that swiftly rose in her cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was fine?” she muttered. 

“No.”

“Probably for the best,” she sighed. “I’m not looking forward to this march.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you won’t be marching,” Chrom smiled. “You’d probably be better off riding with Stahl or Frederick than Sully, her horse is a damn monster--”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I think I’ll march.”

The prince paused, turning a puzzled frown on the tactician beside him. “What? Why?”

“I don’t care for horses,” she muttered. “So if it’s either ride or march, I’d rather march.” 

“What happened, did you have a bad fall? There’s a saying in Ylisse, ‘if you’re thrown from the saddle, get right back up in it.’”

“That’s all fine and well, but I don’t actually remember the last time I was in a saddle. It’s...something of a blank. Uncle Mustafa doesn’t speak of it much, but from what I’ve gathered it was less about being thrown and more about being nearly trampled.”

“...oh.” Well, that would certainly explain her discomfort. “You really shouldn’t be marching, though,” he added lamely. 

“I don’t see any wyverns flying around, do you? So I think marching’s my only option.”

“...wyverns,” he repeated. She nodded, her expression betraying none of the teasing he would have expected. “Aren’t wyverns bigger than horses?”

“Some are,” she nodded. “Mine is, to be sure.”

“You have a wyvern.”

“Well, not _here,_ obviously, but yes.”

The captain shook his head in disbelief. “You can tell me more once we get underway.”

“I’ll do my best, though I can’t promise much in the way of conversation while we march,” she remarked. 

“And I’m not letting you walk back to Ylisstol,” he insisted. “What if I ride with you?” 

“You don’t have a horse,” she pointed out. 

“You can borrow mine.”

Chrom jumped as Sully slung an arm around his shoulders, smiling sidelong between him and the tactician. “I don’t even trust your horse not to throw me with _you_ at the reins,” he remarked.

“...fair point,” she snickered, turning to scan the crowd. “Hey Stahl!” she yelled, waving her fellow cavalier over with his mare in tow. “The Captain needs to borrow your horse.”

“Why? I thought he said Robin was going to ride with me,” Stahl protested.

“Were you planning this?” the tactician demanded.

“I told you I wasn’t going to let you walk,” the prince shrugged. “But I’d been expecting you to just agree to ride with Stahl.”

“I really will be fine marching--”

“You may need to tie your girlfriend down if you manage to get her on a horse at all,” Sully grinned, elbowing Chrom in the ribs.

“...girlfriend?” Robin repeated.

“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how he’s always mooning over you,” the cavalier scoffed. “I figured with this whole cuddling up under the cape bit he’d finally fessed up and you took pity on him.”

“I haven’t been _mooning_ ,” Chrom muttered as the tactician’s face began to redden.

“Oh, come off it,” Sully snorted. “How long have we known each other? I know every stupid face you make, and every time Robin walks in the room you get the _stupidest_ grin on your face and stop paying attention to everything. You didn’t even notice the last time I called you a trashlord. You’re _mooning._ ”

“When did you call me a trashlord?” the prince asked.

“Exactly,” the cavalier winked, giving him another playful nudge. “So, you kissed her yet?”

“Lay off,” he grumbled. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ if she doesn’t know she’s your girlfriend yet, that might convince her. And maybe afterward you’ll stop getting so stupid, too.”

Chrom made a rude gesture in her direction, which only made Sully laugh as she grabbed the back of Stahl’s collar and dragged him off. “Go easy on her!” the cavalier called anxiously as the prince caught the mare’s reins, preventing her from following after her usual rider. She settled without protest, nosing the captain’s shoulder even as Robin shied away. 

“She’s not going to hurt you,” Chrom assured the tactician, rubbing the horse’s nose. “There’s not a gentler horse in all Ylisstol, as far as I’ve seen. And I may not be the best horseman the Shepherds have to offer, but I’m a capable enough rider. So...will you ride with me?”

Robin’s shoulders hunched slightly as she rubbed the back of her neck, staring down at the stones beneath their feet. “... … … I suppose,” she mumbled.

Beaming, the prince helped the tactician up onto the mare’s back before mounting behind her, settling comfortably in the saddle as she leaned against him. And as the Longfort gates opened, Chrom gently spurred them southward, Robin’s warmth staving off the morning’s chill. 

***

“So. Wyverns.”

“Yes,” Robin smiled. She’d begun to wonder if Chrom would ever pick up that lost thread of conversation; they’d passed much of the morning in comfortable silence, and she’d enjoyed the chance to view the passing scenery. Too often she was so wrapped up in strategizing for the future that she paid it little mind. But the sunlight playing off the snowy branches and the traces of various animals’ passage through the drifts, along with the occasional remark from the prince, kept her entertained enough that she had begun to find the ride rather pleasant. 

“I find it hard to believe that you’re afraid of horses and don’t mind something that’s bigger, eats meat, and flies,” he remarked. “I’d think that would be worse. At least with horses you can give them treats and not worry about losing a hand in the process.”

“A well-trained wyvern won’t bite your hand off, either,” she laughed, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs. The Feroxi medics and Lissa seemed to think she was healing well enough, but she looked forward to the day when breathing no longer made her chest hurt. 

“How do you train a wyvern?”

“About the same way you train most animals, I suppose,” she shrugged. “You handle them from an early age to acclimate them to humans, reward and reinforce desired behaviors, gradually get them accustomed to new regimens, and practice regularly. The Plegian capital has a wyvern aerie where they’ve been breeding and training dragons for centuries, and they’re really quite tame when raised properly.”

“...are you saying they’re not dangerous?” Chrom ventured dubiously. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she chuckled. “They’re like hunting dogs: they won’t attack their partners or keepers, but for the things they’ve been trained to fight or hunt, they will give no quarter.”

“...so what are wyverns trained to hunt? Please don’t say ‘Ylisseans,’” he added nervously.

“Not Ylisseans,” she grinned. “It really depends on the type.”

“There are _types?”_

“Well, of course. You have dogs bred for different hunts, don’t you?” she asked. “Foxhounds, boarhounds...wyverns are little different. You have your hunters, who target large wild game or aerial targets in brief, powerful flights; your raiders, who barely fly at all but are strong land-based fighters; your rangers, who aren’t fighters at all but messengers capable of long sustained flights; and your bruisers, the biggest of them all -- they’re the ones Plegia employs in battle, so they’re often called ‘war wyverns.’ They’re all trained differently, depending on what class they fit -- it’s all based on their wingspan and body size -- so each hatchling is assessed, reared, trained, and eventually partnered with a handler or rider and sent off to where their skills are best utilized.”

“...huh. So what kind of wyvern did you have?” the prince murmured, tucking his nose into her hair. 

“A war wyvern,” she smiled. “A great bloody bruiser.”

“Does he fight that often?”

“What?”

“You said he’s bloody.”

“Oh! No no, that’s his color! It’s not part of determining their class, but it does help define their purpose: verdant wyverns have green scales and are usually used in western Plegia, where there’s more forest and scrub; sandy wyverns come in everything from bronze to gold, and are usually used in the eastern deserts; but the bloody red ones are especially prized as war wyverns for the fear they can strike in the enemy.”

“How did you get partnered with something like that?”

“I picked him myself when he hatched,” she chuckled. “My mother and my uncle took me to see the aerie when I was young, and it happened that there was a clutch hatching when we arrived at the rookery. One of the handlers offered to let me pick one, since I was the princess...and I suppose they expected I would pick a nice hunter, maybe a raider -- both are fine protectors -- but I saw the big red hatchling and I knew that I wanted _that one._ I’m sure they were horrified, they tried so hard to change my mind, but I would not be swayed. So I brought a ball of red scales home and carried him everywhere until he got too big to hold, and then he clung to my back until he got too big to carry, and then he followed me everywhere and slept at the foot of my bed until he got too big to stay indoors at all. And then he went to the aerie and started his own training, not so long after I started mine.”

“He sounds impressive,” the prince remarked. “What’s his name?”

“Drakken,” she smiled. Chrom lifted his head, and she felt her cheeks warm as she glanced over her shoulder to see his incredulous stare. “I was _six,_ I wasn’t exactly the most creative with names,” she muttered defensively. 

“Well, it’s certainly an appropriate one,” he chuckled, his voice lightly teasing. “So where is he now?”

“Still in the capital, to the best of my knowledge,” she sighed. “I’d have brought him with me, if I’d been able, but it’s easier to track a wyvern and rider than it is a lone woman. ...I hope he’s alright.” She’d asked Henry about him on more than one occasion, and the dark mage had sworn he was taking care of the dragon, but…

“I’m sure he’s fine,” the prince murmured. “If he’s even half as fierce as you are, nothing will stop him.” 

A soft smile touched her lips. She certainly looked forward to seeing the wyvern again, when she finally made her way back once and for all…

“Step lively, now, everyone,” Frederick called from the front of the formation. “If we’re to reach town before dark, we’ll need to move a bit faster.”

“I can’t wait to take a hot bath and fall into a nice warm bed,” Lissa sighed wistfully from her perch behind the great knight. 

“That does sound lovely,” Robin agreed. 

“Then we might need to hurry a bit,” the prince said, wrapping one arm securely around her waist before flicking the reins. The mare snorted and eased into a trot while the rest of the troop increased their pace...and as she settled back against Chrom’s chest, the tactician felt her heart ease. 

Someday soon, she would return to Plegia for good. But Ylisse, too, had become a place of comfort -- and every step that carried them toward the capital felt like one step closer to home. 

***

It had taken Robin all of two days to fall back into her usual habits once they arrived in Ylisstol. Chrom had to admit, that was at least slightly better than he’d been dreading: after all, she could have gone straight to work the minute she walked through the garrison doors. As it was, though, Lissa and the castle clerics had agreed that the tactician was healing well enough to resume a portion of her normal routine...and from there she’d wasted little time, gathering up maps and books and shutting herself up to prepare for the conflict ahead. 

Which, he knew, was not going to help her heal. 

Knocking at the door, the prince let himself in before Robin could respond. Likely for the best, since she appeared too engrossed in her work to even react to his intrusion. Shaking his head, he made his way across the room with one arm tucked beneath his cape, leaning over her shoulder to see the tiny wooden figures arranged on the map spread across the table. “Hard at work, I see,” he remarked. She made a vague noise, taking a scrap of parchment from the pile of missives delivered that morning from their border forces, scanning the tight script, and shifting a few of the pieces away from the mountains and toward the center of Plegia. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered taking a break. Getting something to eat, maybe.”

“Soon,” she muttered, unfolding another missive. 

“Did you have lunch?” he asked. She made no reply -- but he swore he saw her shoulders hunch slightly as she busied herself with moving more figures. “I see. Why not take that break now?”

“I’m in the middle of something,” she mumbled, reaching for another letter. 

“It can wait,” he sighed, pulling her chair out from the table (and grinning to himself at her yelp of surprise). 

“Chrom, I need to finish--”

“ _After_ you get something to eat,” he interrupted, planting himself firmly between the tactician and her map. Rolling her eyes, Robin rose from her seat, clearly preparing to move around him -- but he had been expecting that. Stepping forward, the prince slipped his arm around her, turned them toward the door, and walked her out of the room in spite of her mounting protests. Her voice quieted as he guided her into the common, though the tension he could feel in her shoulders spoke volumes about the words she had in mind for him. 

Guiding her to a plush chair before the hearth, the prince gestured pointedly for her to take a seat. “You know I’m just going to get up as soon as you leave,” she grumbled, flopping down and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I had a feeling,” he agreed. “Which is why I brought this to keep you occupied.” 

Her furrowed brows rose as he withdrew the arm from beneath his cape and deposited a tiny ball of striped grey fur into her lap. The kitten had been surprisingly quiet on the trip to the garrison, content to doze in the crook of his arm once he draped his cloak over it; but with the sudden disturbance it came wide awake, mewling as it stumbled up onto its paws and proceeded to climb Robin’s coat. 

While the tactician attempted to catch the energetic bundle of fluff, Chrom turned and made his way over to the table where a handful of Shepherds still sat with the remnants of the midday meal. Making a rude gesture in response to Sully’s sidelong grin, the prince heaped a plate with bread, ham, cheese, and dried fruit before striding back to the fire. Robin had, if nothing else, managed to capture the kitten before it could climb over the back of the chair, though she appeared to be having some trouble coaxing it back down with its tiny needle claws hooked into the fabric; shaking his head, Chrom deposited the plate in her lap and plucked the squirming bundle of fluff up before offering it back to her. 

“Where did you get a kitten?” she asked, taking it gently and offering it a shred of ham from the plate. 

“The kitchens,” he chuckled. “They keep several cats to handle any mice that might get into the pantries or the larder. One of them had a late litter of kittens, and now that they’re starting to get underfoot they were looking for new homes for them -- Lissa was planning to badger Maribelle and Ricken to take a couple, but I had a feeling one of them might come in handy here. Now, technically there’s a strict ‘no animals in the garrison’ policy that Frederick’s instituted, but I think we can make an exception, since this one has a very important job.”

“And what would that be?” the tactician murmured, stroking the fine grey-striped fur. 

“Keeping you from working.” 

She sighed as the kitten shoved its head into her hand, overbalanced, and toppled over. “I have things to do,” she mumbled, her fingers scritching behind a velvet ear and making the kitten’s paws stretch and flex. 

“I agree. But I think recovering should be at the top of that list, not the bottom,” he remarked. 

“The healers said--”

“That you could _ease_ back into routine, not _throw_ yourself back into bad habits like forgetting to eat or sleep.”

“There’s so much to be done--”

“And time enough for it all without you spending every minute of the day poring over maps and scrolls and messages. You need to relax.”

“I can’t relax,” she mumbled, taking a thick slice of bread from the plate and chewing over the corner. “Things are already starting to move, the border forces are reporting that Gangrel’s troops are thinning out, which means he likely knows that his attempt on my life failed and fears some retaliation since the attack was made on Feroxi soil. And if he’s going to amass troops and send them toward the Longfort, it means that the Grimleal forces are going to mobilize soon to keep pace, which means that my prospective timetables might be advanced, and _that_ means…”

“Going back to Ferox, _eventually,_ ” Chrom finished, smiling as the kitten yawned and curled into a neat ball with its tail over its nose. “But as you and I both know, it’s hard enough to get the Shepherds organized and moved, and we’re a squadron at best -- with six battalions, it’ll take weeks to gather enough supplies for a march, let alone coordinate all the men involved. You have time to sit, put your feet up, and enjoy a nice meal. Maybe read a book.”

“...well, there are a few books of strategy I’d been meaning to--”

“Not that kind of book,” the prince interrupted. “Read a novel. I know we have a few bookshelves full of them, Sumia keeps the garrison well-stocked.” Looking around, he picked up a text someone had left on a stand by the hearth. “Like this,” he added, glancing once at the title and smiling to himself as he passed it to her. 

“ _Wyvern Wars,_ ” she read, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, you do like wyverns,” he teased. “It seems like your sort of story. And unless you want to rouse that little hellion,” he noted, gesturing to the kitten dozing under her fingers, “you’re better off staying right there, eating your lunch, and reading your book. Agreed?”

“...I suppose,” she relented, petting the soft grey ball of fluff in her lap. “...thank you, Chrom.”

“It’s my pleasure,” the prince beamed. After a moment’s thought, he leaned close, pressing a kiss to her temple -- and as she looked up in surprise, he touched another to her lips (pointedly ignoring Sully’s whistle from the table behind them). “Enjoy yourself,” he murmured. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“...I look forward to it,” she murmured, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. And as he turned and made his way out of the garrison, his steps felt light as the snow spinning down from the clouds overhead. 


	6. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the final battle between Plegia's forces weighs heavily on her mind, Chrom convinces Robin to join the Shepherds for a night of fun and friendship at the garrison. While the tactician is reluctant to leave her self-appointed post, the night proves far more enjoyable than she expected -- and brings with it several unexpected surprises...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And we are back_
> 
> It's always weird coming back from a writing break. After a lull, there's always a fear that things don't hold up as well as they should, that things aren't as well-worded or as strong as they used to be...but there are still things in this chapter that I'm very fond of, and overall I think I'm happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> Just perspective changes (*) this time around. Enjoy!

“Hey. You busy?”

Robin made a vague noise as Chrom leaned against the back of her chair, never once taking her eyes from the map laid out before her. “At the moment I’m charting activity at the border based on the latest scout missives--”

“Can you do it later?”

“Only if you have something more urgent that demands my attention.”

The prince opened his mouth...and closed it again as she turned a warning look on him. “Uhm.”

“Is this about the raucous affair going on in the common?” she asked pointedly. 

“It hasn’t been that loud,” he protested. 

“Yes, it has.” 

Chrom sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d even asked the other Shepherds to keep it down. So much for that, obviously. “You should come join us,” he said. “Have some fun. Relax for a while.”

“I just got done with a break,” she replied. “And I still have a pile of reports to sift through, not to mention Henry’s evening update will be in shortly, and--”

“It’ll all still be there tomorrow. You can take one evening off, can’t you?”

“At this stage--”

“It’s the middle of winter.”

“So?”

“The days are too short to get much done, there’s snow everywhere that bogs down travel--”

“Not in Plegia, there’s not.”

“Rain?”

“Only occasionally this time of year, and only in the Midmire. Winter’s the dry season for the western scrubland, and the desert barely gets rain regardless of the season.”

“So what exactly are you expecting to happen that you need to be on alert for?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed. “That’s why I’m on alert.”

“You’re running yourself ragged,” he sighed. “You need to relax sometimes, you know, or you won’t be able to respond when you _are_ needed.”

“But what if something happens while I’m not here?” she asked. 

“Then you take care of it tomorrow,” he replied. “Everyone needs to sleep, and eat, and _take breaks._ It’s well past nightfall already, and no matter what _might_ happen, I doubt you could really do anything about it at this hour. So why not take the night off? Have a little fun with the rest of us, for once.”

“...doing what?” she muttered.

“Why don’t you come find out?” he winked, laying a hand on her back--

Something squirmed under his palm. 

Snatching his fingers back, the prince stared as a black-striped face poked out of her lowered hood. The kitten yawned, exposing an uncomfortable expanse of pointed teeth, before clambering over the tactician’s shoulder, jumping down to the table, and flopping across her map. 

“...Robin, why was there a cat in your hood?” Chrom asked. 

“To keep her off my work,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Fine. Fine! You win. Let’s go.”

Well, it wasn’t how he’d expected to convince her, but it seemed effective. Gods, that kitten really had been a great idea, no matter what Frederick might say. Striding across the room, the prince offered a playful bow as he opened the door for her; she rolled her eyes as she walked past him, waiting for him while he closed it to keep the cat contained. The sounds from the common only grew louder as they approached -- but when they emerged from the dim hall and into the warm firelight, a cheer went up from the assembled Shepherds, accompanied by a scattering of applause. 

“What’s all that for?” Robin asked. 

“For the captain getting you out of that room for once,” Sully laughed, hefting a mug toward him in a toast. “We weren’t sure he’d be able to pull it off.”

“I’m not in there _that_ much,” the tactician mumbled, hunching her shoulders slightly. 

“Yeah, you _really are,_ ” the cavalier snorted. “Siddown, have an ale, join the party.”

“I’m not much for ale,” Robin insisted as Chrom moved to the kegs standing on the far side of the room. Turning the tap on the smallest barrel, he hummed as the rich amber brew filled the stein, leaving only the thinnest head of foam. She gave him a dismayed look as he set it down before her -- but her head tilted as he winked, taking a seat at her side. 

“It’s not ale,” he promised, taking the mug Sully passed to him. The tactician frowned, lifting it in both hands and sniffing curiously before taking a tentative sip…

...and a brilliant smile broke across her face. “This is wonderful,” she laughed. 

“I had a feeling you’d enjoy it,” he chuckled. “It’s some of the best cider in Ylisstol.”

“The trashlord put in a special order just for you,” the cavalier grinned, elbowing Chrom in the ribs and making him choke on his drink. 

“Would you quit calling me that?” he grumbled. 

“Why should I?” Sully shot back, taking a swig of her own ale. 

Before he could reply, a blast of cold air whipped into the garrison, and the assembled Shepherds immediately shouted in protest. Frederick immediately leapt into action, hurrying to close the door and grumbling about the possibility of a broken latch--

“Good evening, Kellam,” Robin called. 

“Kellam’s here?” Chrom asked, looking around the common. 

“He just arrived,” she replied. Squinting, the captain turned his head and scanned the room again...and at last caught the glint of firelight off plate armor a few paces past the door. He still had no idea how the knight did that.

“Hello, Kellam,” the prince said, waving him over. Now that he’d found the man, it was slightly less of a challenge to follow his progress as he took a seat next to Robin, brushing snow out of his hair. “Glad you managed to make it back. What did you run out for?”

“Well, you said there would be a party, and I thought...what’s a party without music?” he asked, holding up a rather battered lute. 

“I didn’t know you played an instrument,” the tactician remarked. If Chrom was being honest, he didn’t know much about Kellam at all. 

“I’m no minstrel, but I can play a few folk songs,” the knight replied, removing his gauntlets and plucking a chord on the strings. “The Fisherman’s Wife, Briar and Hollyhock, The Badgers of Bolton Borough…”

“Ooh! What about Mister Fox’s Night Out?” Lissa piped up from across the table.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that one,” Kellam admitted, picking out a few notes and tuning the instrument...before starting in on a rousing tune that every Shepherd seemed to recognize. Their voices lifted, covering the occasional sour note with a discordant but no less enthusiastic refrain...and once it was done they turned into another, and another, laughing and stomping their way through chorus after chorus. 

Eventually the prince realized that one of their number had been silent through the festivities. Though she smiled and sometimes joined in clapping out the beats, Robin only nursed her cider as the rest sang on. “Something wrong?” he asked, bumping the tactician’s shoulder gently while Sully and Vaike squabbled over what to tackle next. 

She glanced up from her half-empty mug, smiling as she shook her head. “Not at all,” she assured him. “This is...actually quite nice.”

“Why not join in, then?” he grinned. 

“I’d consider it, if I knew any of these songs,” she chuckled. And once he stopped to think, the prince realized that he had no reason to be surprised: why would she know Ylissean folk tunes when she hailed from Plegia? 

Taking a slow drink from his own stein, he watched her from the corner of his eye, thinking carefully over his words. “We could teach you one, if you wanted. Or you could sing something that you know.” 

She paused with the mug halfway to her lips, glancing in his direction. “It’s not as though you’d know any of the songs I do. Kellam couldn’t even play.”

“So? You don’t need a lute to sing,” he chuckled. “We’d all love to hear something -- I don’t think I’ve ever heard any songs from Plegia.” He’d never thought about what Plegian music might be like -- or even if they even had any to begin with. 

“I couldn’t,” she protested. “It’s been so long since I’ve sung at all, let alone in front of anyone…”

“Think of it like a rehearsal for all those speeches you’ll be making once you’re queen, then,” he offered. 

“Gods, that just makes it worse,” she muttered, hunching her shoulders.

“Stage fright?”

“More like performance dread,” she mumbled around the rim of her cup. “I’ve performed the Grima’s Night invocation for the capital since I was eleven, and if I so much as forgot one word from the ritual script -- even if it changed none of the meaning or spirit -- I’d be forced to drill it for weeks. Perfection was a _requirement_ for my father.”

“...we wouldn’t do that to you,” he promised, laying a hand lightly on her arm. “And it’s not like we expect a flawless performance: Vaike’s completely tone deaf and we haven’t kicked him out yet, after all.”

“Hey!” the fighter protested. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about, I’m a damn _natural.”_

“Yeah, a natural at bustin’ everybody’s ears,” Sully snorted.

Robin smiled, rubbing the back of her right hand with the tips of her fingers. “I can’t promise I’ll be any better than him,” she warned.

“You’ll be fine,” Chrom smiled. “Just have fun.”

The murmur of conversation from the other Shepherds quieted as the tactician drew in a breath, folding her hands a few times in her lap…

...and when her voice rose again, it was soft and clear, lilting sweetly over the crackle of flames in the hearth. The words were foreign, but it made them no less beautiful as the notes rose and fell by turns, stealing his breath away. He couldn’t be sure who started to clap out the rhythm, but one by one they all joined in...and as the song came to an end, she was grinning as she bobbed her head in time. 

The applause that filled the common brought a warm blush to her face. “I take it I at least did better than Vaike?” she chuckled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

 _“Much,”_ the prince laughed. “Care to treat us to another?”

“Maybe later,” she replied, ignoring the groans of protest from around the room. “I’d like to hear a few more of your songs first. Maybe you could teach me a few?”

That seemed to placate the Shepherds well enough, and in short order the sounds of Kellam’s lute and all their voices filled the garrison once more -- but this time, Robin’s joined them, ringing sweet and clear in his ears. 

***

Robin couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself like this. 

They sang together, teaching one another melodies from both sides of their shared border. And in time, the choruses gave way to stories and games of dice and cards, coins changing hands as the Shepherds placed small wagers on the outcome of a roll or a draw. And one by one, as the hours wore by, the others began to retire to the barracks until only a handful of merrymakers remained. 

As Sully crowed in triumph over her latest victory, raking coins to her side of the table while Vaike groaned and slumped in his seat, Chrom caught the tactician’s eye. He took to his feet, smiling and gesturing subtly for her to follow as he moved toward the garrison’s exit...and offering a quiet parting word to the other Shepherds, Robin rose from her place and joined the captain at the door leading out into the night. 

The sudden rush of cold air made her breath catch, and she wrapped her coat tighter as she stepped out into the ankle-deep snow that had fallen over the course of the day. The prince fared still worse, shivering and rubbing his arms as the cold bit through his tunic. “Alright, this might not have been my best idea,” he admitted. 

Rolling her eyes, the tactician trotted across the courtyard and up the palace steps with Chrom close behind. The main hall felt little warmer when they ducked past the castle doors, and the prince grumbled a curse under his breath while Robin tapped the ice off her boots. “Are you regretting not staying in the garrison?” she asked, her teeth chattering slightly in the chill. 

“I’m starting to,” he muttered. “Sorry for dragging you out in all this, I just wanted some quiet. And some privacy. And there’s not much of either there.”

“You have a point,” she chuckled, rubbing her hands together in a vain attempt to warm her fingers before shoving them deep into the pockets of her coat. “So what did you want to discuss that needed privacy?”

“Nothing in particular. I just wanted to talk,” he laughed. “But Sully would have started ribbing me again and Vaike would have given me a hard time, and even if we picked another room in the garrison we’d have needed to keep it down because of all the people sleeping in the barracks...so this just seemed easier,” he finished, shrugging and starting down the chill corridors. Robin fell into step beside him, following his lead up a curving flight of stairs and into a second passage only slightly warmer than the first. “So did you have fun tonight?”

“I did,” she admitted, a smile spreading across her face as she turned toward him. “I wasn’t expecting it, but...I really had a wonderful time. Thank you, Chrom.”

He stared at her so raptly that he nearly walked into a suit of decorative armor standing along the wall. She barely managed to catch his arm in time to avert disaster -- and even then, his gaze never left her face, and she felt her cheeks begin to heat beneath that unwavering attention. “You need to be more careful,” she murmured. “I think the ale is starting to catch up with you. It might be best if you make for bed--”

“Not yet.”

As she turned to leave, his hand lit on her shoulder. “Please,” he added softly. “Not yet. I just...I’d like to talk. Just a little longer.”

She sighed, glancing up at him again. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Just a pint of ale. Maybe another half, after you joined in?” She gave him an appraising look, catching a shy, hopeful smile tugging at his mouth even as he tried to hold it in…

...and relented in the face of it, a faint grin touching her own lips. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk a little more. Provided we can go somewhere warm,” she added as he shivered. 

“Gladly,” the prince laughed, turning and heading off down the hall again. She matched his pace with ease, turning up another flight of stairs and down another corridor and watching as he opened another door for her with a playful bow. Stifling a giggle, Robin moved past him into a lavishly furnished parlour warmed by a crackling hearth; taking a seat by the flames, she stretched her fingers toward the warmth as Chrom joined her. “Better?” he asked. 

“Much,” she agreed, letting the heat sink in. 

He grinned, rubbing his palms together before holding his hands out toward the fire. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he said, glancing toward her. “It was nice, seeing you smile so much. And hearing you sing.”

She felt the prickle of warmth in her cheeks and stubbornly tried to ignore it. “It’s been a while,” she murmured. “I can’t claim to be much of a singer, but it’s nice to know I’m better than Vaike, if nothing else.”

“You mentioned that earlier,” he noted. “That you haven’t sung in a while. Why not?”

She sighed, folding her hands in her lap. “It was my mother who taught me,” she murmured. “She loved to sing. It was one of her joys, probably her greatest passion, and she shared it with me. She taught me so many songs growing up, and we sang together...all the time. But after she died, my father took over all my training. And he saw no value in music -- he only saw it as a waste of time that could be better spent learning diplomacy, or astronomy, or history, or tactics, or spellcraft, or...any number of other things. So he banned it, and reprimanded me any time he caught me so much as humming. Sometimes I would sing for Henry, when it was late and he couldn’t sleep, but...it’s been a long time since I’ve even done that. ...I never forgot, though. As much as he wanted me to, I never forgot the songs she taught me. Music is how I remember her. And it helped to bring me here”

“I’m grateful for it, then,” Chrom murmured. “It let us meet.” 

Her face began to burn as his hand settled over hers. And as she turned toward him, he leaned close, touching a gentle kiss to her lips. 

It was warm. Gods, that touch burned hotter than the fire before them, sweet and soft and all-consuming; leaning tentatively into that affection, she slipped an arm around his shoulders, and she felt him smile as he drew her closer against him. The heat of his breath on her skin, of his body pressed against her own, stirred something deep in her core, an _ache_ for his touch, for his hands on her skin, for--

...what?

“What am I doing?”

She pulled back, raking a hand awkwardly through her bound hair. “I-I’m sorry -- I don’t know what came over me -- please excuse me, I-I should go--”

“W-wait!”

His hand caught her wrist as she scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, the color in his face swiftly draining away. “Please don’t go, I wasn’t trying to force you into anything, I swear, I’m sorry--”

“Y...you didn’t do anything,” she managed. “Gods, no, y-you didn’t…”

She was shaking, hard enough that she could barely speak through her chattering teeth. He shifted slightly, patting the space beside him with his free hand, the other still gently holding her arm...and after a moment, she settled down, pulling her knees up to her chest and trying to draw in something deeper than a gasp. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Chrom asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do _anything,_ I’m the one who pushed you.”

“...you didn’t, though,” she protested. “It...it was nice.”

“...then why did you stop?”

She felt him watching her, and curled tighter into herself beneath that questioning stare. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t...know what I was doing, I wasn’t trying to overstep, I--”

“You didn’t,” he assured her. “I was enjoying it, too.”

She tilted her head slightly, glancing sidelong at him...and found him smiling, something gentle and reassuring. Uncurling slowly from her huddle, Robin eased back into the cushions, keenly aware of the man sitting beside her...but when his arm settled light across her shoulders, she leaned closer against him rather than shying away. 

She felt him hum softly as she tilted her head against his shoulder. “Is this okay?” he offered.

Nodding slightly, she folded her hands in her lap. “It’s nice,” she murmured. 

“You’re used to this, then?”

“ _This_ is nothing compared to how Henry gets,” she chuckled. “He’s always been cuddly. It’s...everything else that’s strange.”

“...have you thought about it before?” he asked, his voice low and soft. “Being with someone?”

She made a vague, noncommittal noise. “My father insisted that...as the Heart of Grima, I needed to remain untouched -- he once threatened to make a eunuch of Henry, if that tells you anything. ...it was probably because he didn’t want anything interfering with his plan to make me into Grima’s vessel,” she muttered, gripping her marked hand. Not that she knew what that entailed, but...

Chrom’s arm tightened comfortingly around her shoulders. “We won’t let that happen. _I_ won’t let that happen. No matter what. But for tonight...what do you want to do?” 

“...I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Can we just...stay here a while?”

“As long as you like,” he agreed. 

“No one will mind?”

“I certainly don’t,” he shrugged. “And it’s my room, so...” 

“This is -- _what?”_ she demanded, pulling away to stare at him. 

“I couldn’t think of anywhere else that would still have a fire going at this hour,” he explained, a trace of color rising in his cheeks.

“I’d call you a cad if I didn’t know you better,” she huffed, crossing her arms. 

“I’ve been called worse.”

“...this really isn’t new to you, is it?” 

“...some of it is,” he confessed. “I’m used to courtship. I’ve had noble families presenting their daughters as potential marriage prospects since I was fifteen -- Emmeryn refused to make either Lissa or me into bargaining chips, but gods only know how many offers my father had before she took over rule of the halidom. I’ve entertained them on ceremony, but they always felt hollow. More an obligation than anything. It’s...nerve-wracking, sometimes, because I’ve never cared about messing up before: it didn’t _matter_ if I made a misstep, said the wrong thing, _did_ the wrong thing, because there wasn’t anything _there_ before, aside from appearances. And...now it does matter. Because there is.”

She glanced at him as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands tight to hide their shaking...and after a moment, she reached out, curling her fingers gently around his. “To be honest, I don’t think you could fail _that_ badly,” she chuckled. “Yes, you do mess up sometimes. But it’s well-meaning. And you learn from it. So as long as you’re trying to do better every time, instead of making the same mistakes over and over...even if you do mess up, you’ll have another chance.”

“...with you, too?” he asked, turning to face her. 

She smiled, tightening her grip on his hand. “Of course with me, too. I believe in forgiveness, where it’s deserved.”

“...so you might forgive me for this…?” he mumbled, freeing one hand to gesture at the room around them. 

“I could be convinced,” she replied. 

A pleading look touched his face. “How?”

“...what about a promise,” she offered. 

“Like what?”

“That...you’ll be patient,” she murmured. “There are...a great many things I don’t know. Or that I’m unsure of. And...I don’t know how long it will take me.” Even now, she felt a bewildering mixture of apprehension and excitement, elation and dread, at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t found her senses when she did…

His fingers brushed across her cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Startled, she turned to face him...and her heart stumbled at the sight of his smile, crinkling at the corners of his deep blue eyes. “I promise,” he swore. “I’m in no hurry -- provided I can still see you, that is,” he amended.

“Of course,” she laughed. “A captain needs his tactician, after all...and I enjoy spending time with you.” 

The grin that overtook his expression made her chest feel warm and full. His hand cupped her cheek, callused but gentle….and as he leaned close, she met his advance with a shy kiss of her own. 

***

They settled together before the hearth, close and comfortable, speaking softly of idle things to keep her mind from straying back to her work. To Chrom’s faint amusement, Robin began to doze against his shoulder in the lulls of their conversation...and rather than send her back to the garrison, risking the cold beyond the castle walls jolting her awake and leaving her toiling through the night again, the prince invited her to stay. He knew well enough that she would have refused under normal circumstances (likely citing Frederick’s inevitable reaction, should he find out) -- but much to his surprise, she accepted with barely more than a cursory argument. 

She hesitated briefly when he led her into the bedroom, looking around at the tapestries on the walls while he drew back the coverlet, but when he called she picked her way quietly over, wrapping her coat a bit closer as she settled on the edge of the bed. By the time he returned from banking the fires in both the parlour and the bedroom, her exhaustion had taken its toll: she barely stirred as he slipped under the blankets beside her, and was soundly asleep by the time he found rest of his own. 

The night must have been more bitter than he’d expected. When he woke to the tolling of the church bells beyond the palace, he found Robin tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped warm and secure around her...but rather than withdraw, he lingered, tucking his nose into her tousled hair and breathing her in.

“Good morning,” she mumbled against his throat. 

“Good morning,” he chuckled, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”

She murmured something wordless, snuggling slightly deeper into the covers as he lifted a hand to piece through her hair. “I probably overslept.”

“The morning bells only just sounded.”

“I _definitely_ overslept,” she groaned. “Gods, Henry’s going to throw a fit, I never wrote him last night…”

Chrom laughed as she buried her face in her hands. “I’m sure he’ll understand. You needed the rest.”

Mumbling something incoherent, she pushed herself upright, hiding a yawn in her coat sleeve before leaning down to pull on her boots. In the faded dawn light, with her rumpled clothes and unkempt hair, the faintest air of drowsiness lingering about her, she looked...calm. Unguarded. At ease, if only for a moment.

“You’re beautiful.” 

She turned, her fingers working half-heartedly to comb through her tangled locks. “Come again?”

“You are,” he insisted, settling beside her and gently brushing a few strands of hair back behind her ear. 

“I’m a mess,” she scoffed. 

“This might be the first time I’ve seen you not looking worried,” he replied. “...I’m glad you stayed. I’m glad I got to wake up beside you.” She shook her head, faint amusement in the curve of her smile. “...I want to do it again.”

That, at last, gave her pause. Robin’s hands stilled, her brow knitting in clear confusion. “What are you saying?”

“...I want to stay with you.”

“Chrom--”

“Not just until things are settled in Plegia, but--”

“Gods, are you listening to yourself?”

“What?”

“You can’t...you can’t just _say_ things like that,” she protested. “Chrom, once things things in Plegia are settled I have to...I’m going to become queen of a country in need of reconstruction and aid, I’ll have so many new responsibilities, there’s no possible way I can go back to Ylisse with you--”

“I don’t expect you to come back with me. I want to go with you.”

“And what will the Ylissean people have to say about that?” she asked, pressing her palms against her face. “Their prince, wandering off with some Plegian heretic? He must be under a spell--”

“It doesn’t matter what they say,” he insisted. She sighed, her hands falling to her lap -- and he reached out, folding his fingers around hers and giving them a gentle squeeze. “They don’t know you. But I do. I love you, Robin.”

”You keep saying that.”

“They’re not just words. I _do_.”

“How do you know this isn’t just some...some infatuation?” she asked. “What if you wake up one morning and realize you were wrong, and it’s not love, but...but something else? You barely know me, you can’t just go running off like that...”

“I do know you, though. I know you love music, and books, and even though your favorite places are quiet, you enjoy close company. I know you’re strong, and brave, and kind, and you’ll do everything to keep even a single soldier from falling in a battle. I know you’re scared of becoming what you hate most, and you push yourself too hard because of it. I don’t know everything about you, but...every time I learn something new, it just makes me love you more. And...I want to stay at your side, to learn all I can.”

“...it almost sounds like you’re proposing,” she mumbled, a trace of color rising in her cheeks. 

His own began to warm as he thought over those words again. 

And yet...they did not ring false. 

“...what if I am?”

“For Grima’s sake, you _can’t_ be serious--”

“Why not?”

“Because...because that isn’t like starting some casual fling,” she protested. “That’s a promise that will follow you for the rest of your _life,_ and if you jump into that without thinking you _will_ end up regretting it. And I d…” His grip tightened slightly as her fingers began to tremble. “I don’t want you to regret meeting me.”

“I don’t regret knowing you,” he chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “I love you. And I want to stay with you.”

“...can you be patient?” she whispered. “There’s still so much that needs to be accomplished, and I don’t th...I’m _not_ ready. For _any_ of it. So please...d-do you think...you can wait a while?”

He smiled, drawing her gently closer and touching his forehead to hers. “Of course,” he murmured. “I promised you, didn’t I? There’s no need to rush. It gives me more time to get to know you better. Maybe starting with what you like for breakfast?” 

“You just don’t give up, do you?” she laughed, leaning against his side. 

“I can be stubborn,” he agreed. Shaking her head, Robin gave him a playful nudge as she rose from the bed, combing her fingers through her hair again. Chrom grinned, moving across the room to stoke the fire before turning to the wardrobe in search of something less rumpled to wear for the day…

...and as Robin began to hum a soft melody behind him -- one of the sweet, simple tunes she’d shared with them the night before -- he joined in, their quiet harmony filling the chill morning with warmth. 


	7. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the Plegian civil war draws near, and all forces make their way to the final battlefield. While Robin prays that her planning will lead them to a bloodless end, no strategy survives the opening acts of the battle -- and at the end of the fight, there is still more to lose...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach our conclusion (and epilogue, because I need it). As always, dashes (-) indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. I hope you enjoy the finale!

“Leaving again so soon?” Emmeryn asked, taking up a tea cookie from the tray between them.

“It’s almost spring,” Robin laughed, stirring a bit of honey into her own cup. “That hardly seems soon. And if we delay much longer, we’re likely to get mired in the spring melt along the border with Ferox. More importantly, though, my father’s mobilized the Grimleal forces, and Gangrel’s sending his troops in pursuit. The journey to the northern waste will take them some time, given the size of their armies and the amount of supplies they need to transport, but since I have further to travel, I should hopefully be able to arrive in time if I set out tomorrow at dawn.”

“You keep saying ‘I’ like you’re going alone,” Chrom remarked. “The Shepherds are going with you, aren’t we?”

The tactician turned a shy smile toward the man sitting close beside her. “If you’re not needed here in the halidom, then...I would appreciate the support.”

“Emm gave you temporary charge -- didn’t you?” the prince asked, turning to look at his sister as she nodded in agreement. “There, see?”

“The halidom has soldiers enough to protect her in the Shepherds’ absence,” the Exalt smiled. “And peace in Plegia is a step toward peace in Ylisse. So long as they act by your command, I am happy to see them join your cause.”

“I’m still grateful for their aid,” Robin murmured. “And for your kindness in granting them to us. I wouldn’t be here now, if it wasn’t for Chrom.”

He beamed, folding his hand around hers. The tactician felt her cheeks begin to warm, lifting her cup in a vain attempt to hide the rising color -- which only made the prince grin sidelong at her, stroking her knuckles with his thumb as she returned his gentle grip.

“Are you certain that the Shepherds and Feroxis will be enough to quell the fighting?” Emmeryn asked. “How great are the armies you need to face?”

“Not nearly so great as either my father or Gangrel thinks,” Robin chuckled, taking a sip of her tea. The exalt gestured encouragingly for the tactician to explain, leaning slightly forward in her seat as Robin lowered her cup back to its saucer. “I’ve known for some time now that Gangrel would rather see me dead than relinquish rule of Plegia. The assassins he sent to Ferox just proved how far he was willing to go to keep the throne for himself. But apparently my father never intended to see me crowned, either, and only wants to use my body to further his own aims. Regardless, my purpose in seeking help from Ylisse and Ferox was never to aid either of their causes: since I left the capital, my only goal was to aid the people of Plegia, who have been caught between the selfish wills of those in power. So I asked my uncle soon after my initial departure to reach out within my father’s forces and Gangrel’s, and find those who are loyal: not to the hierarch’s vision of conquest or the king’s promise of influence, but to the dream of peace in Plegia under the Six-Eyes. He has found many in both camps -- and when the battle comes and they turn to our side, my belief is that we will see numbers enough to end the war without any further bloodshed. Which will disappoint the khans, I’m sure, but...given what my father intends, it’s the preferable outcome.”

“There are so many loyal to your cause within the opposing factions?” Emmeryn inquired. 

“According to my uncle, yes,” the tactician nodded. 

“Four battalions worth, as of the council with the khans,” Chrom added. 

“And from Henry’s latest reports, they’ve made contact with still more...though I think he might have added a few too many zeroes,” Robin giggled. 

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you’ve mentioned your agents several times before: how do you maintain contact with them over such a distance?” the exalt asked. 

“I have Henry to thank for that,” the tactician beamed. “He’s officially one of my retainers, but he’s really more like a little brother. He’s odd, but his talent with hexcraft is unrivaled. He experimented with a duplication hex normally used for copying documents -- it’s cast on the parchment, and then whatever’s written on one page appears on both -- and modified it to be effective over long distances.”

Pulling the bundle from her inner coat pocket, Robin unfolded the sheaf and offered the top-most page to Emmeryn. She took it curiously, a puzzled frown creasing her expression as she perused the text. “Henry’s writing is...challenging,” the tactician admitted. “Literacy isn’t his strong point. But it’s a reliable means of communication: virtually instantaneous, impossible to intercept, and ultimately untraceable.”

“This is quite amazing,” the exalt said. “I wonder...would it be too much to ask if I might have a page? We’ve no hawks to send between the halidom and Ferox, and couriers are not exactly the swiftest means of sending word across the continent, especially at this time of year. And since I would imagine that you’ll be meeting Henry before the battle begins, you’ll have the corresponding page, correct? ...it would ease my mind to know how you fare.”

Robin smiled, removing the bottom-most page from the stack. “If this can help reassure you, then I’m glad to share it,” she insisted, passing the parchment across the table. Emmeryn beamed as she accepted it, holding the ongoing correspondence back and folding the clean sheet in her lap. 

“I thank you, Robin,” the Exalt murmured. “And I wish you well in all that awaits you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the tactician replied, bowing her head as she took to her feet. “But it’s getting rather late, and if I -- _we,_ ” she corrected, catching Chrom’s pointed look as the prince stood beside her, “intend to depart in the morning, we’ll need to make sure all our preparations are complete.”

“Of course,” Emmeryn chuckled. “Please, do take care, and best of luck. I’ll see you at supper, Chrom?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he agreed, grinning as he followed the tactician out of the room; and with a final parting wave, he closed the door behind them, his hand folding gently around Robin’s fingers. “I bet she wouldn’t mind you coming, either.”

“I couldn’t intrude,” the tactician replied, leaning against Chrom’s shoulder as he slipped an arm around her waist. “This is your last chance to have dinner as a family for quite a while. You should enjoy it.”

“Why can’t you be part of that?”

“I’m not family, Chrom,” she sighed. “At best, I’m a friend.”

“A _close_ friend. To everyone in the family,” he pointed out. “Emm invites you to tea, Lissa thinks you’re great…”

“And you?” she teased. 

“I don’t think ‘friend’ is the right word,” he chuckled, brushing a kiss across her brow. 

Robin beamed, trying vainly to scrub the rising color from her cheeks. Chrom laughed, a sound that spilled warmth through her breast and made her heart feel curiously full and tight. “Let’s...at least wait to see how the preparations are going,” she mumbled. “If everything seems well in hand, then...I’ll consider.”

“Then we’d best hurry,” he grinned, stealing close enough to touch a kiss to her lips before trotting off down the hall. And she hurried after him, drawing her hood up to hide her fiery blush even as laughter bubbled up unbidden in her throat. 

\-----

The journey north was more difficult the second time around. Robin explained as they trudged through the knee-deep snow blanketing on the northroad that, while Ferox’s guard force kept their major roads maintained regardless of the season to ensure quick response in any crisis, the halidom appeared to take no such measures, making travel slow at best and virtually impossible at worst. But once they reached the Longfort, things began to move more smoothly: one wagon trip to the fortress to meet with the khans, another to the western border, and within another week their combined forces camped just beyond the wall. According to Basilio’s scouts, the Plegian troops had amassed in the wastes ahead: the hierarch’s beyond the swampy Midmire, Gangrel’s in the foothills of the eastern mountain range. 

Given the khans’ report, the armies would likely meet within the week. Mid-morning, if they set out at dawn. As the tactician penned her nightly missive to Henry, it began to sink in just how close they were to the end. Regardless of the outcome...this would all be over soon. 

For once, there came no swift response from the dark mage. She waited a while, weighing down the parchment as she reviewed her maps, considering several emergency strategies in the event that a bloodless conclusion proved impossible, and occasionally glancing toward the open page…

“Knock knock,” Chrom’s voice called from outside the tent an instant before he shouldered his way inside. “Hard at work again, I see. Have you thought about stopping for supper?”

“I didn’t realize it was that time,” she muttered. “I didn’t hear anyone clanging pots together.”

“The Feroxis have a gong, actually,” Chrom remarked, wrapping his arms loose around her shoulders (and taking care not to disturb the cat napping in her hood this time around). “I’m surprised you missed it, the blasted thing about deafened me. But you’d best hurry if you intend to get anything at all.”

“Just another moment, I was in the middle of--”

“No, _now,_ ” he laughed, shifting his grip down to her waist and lifting her out of the chair. She yelped in alarm, flinging her arms around his shoulders for support -- which only made the prince tighten his hold, warm and secure, before setting her gently on her feet. “Come on,” he murmured, touching a kiss to her lips. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

“...I could eat,” she mumbled, scrubbing shyly at the color in her cheeks. 

Grinning, Chrom scooped the kitten out of her hood and deposited her among the blankets before leading the way out into the chill evening air, toward the light of the fires at the heart of camp--

A roar shattered the silence, shaking snow off the guard towers.

Robin stopped in her tracks, turning toward the gates. 

She knew that call. 

Bolting through the camp, a brilliant grin split across her face as she approached the Longfort. _“DRAKKEN!!!”_ she shouted, running headlong through the alarmed Feroxi soldiers. 

Another deafening roar. And then a great shadow lunged over the walls, wings spreading wide as it circled and banked toward the ground. She braced herself as the wyvern flapped hard to slow its descent, her hair whipping around her face in the fierce gusts...and when the dragon settled to rest, a deep rumble filled the air as a scaly nose bumped her chest. Laughing warmly, the tactician flung her arms around the wyvern’s head, her coat billowing as his breaths huffed against her. “Oh, gods, Drakken, I’ve missed you so much,” she crooned, rubbing his ribbed horns. “What are you even doing here?”

“Looking for you, silly!”

“Henry?” 

Robin lifted her head, catching the dark mage’s familiar grin as he tumbled out of the saddle. With his rider dismounted, the dragon wasted no time in rolling onto his back, presenting his belly; the tactician scampered over, running her hands down the plate scales and beaming as the massive form wriggled in delight at the attention. “He really missed you,” Henry announced, the gravity of his voice undercut by his ever-present smile. “I took really good care of him for you, though!”

“You’re the best, Henry. ...but I guess I should ask what you’re doing here, too, then,” she giggled, rubbing the wyvern’s belly scales. 

“Well, you can’t go running off into battle without your trusty dragon, can you?” the mage cackled. “Your dad wanted you to have one of the black ones for reasons, I guess, but I didn’t think Drakken would let you ride another dragon. And I figured you’d like him better, anyway.”

“I can’t deny that,” Robin laughed, turning to throw her arms around Henry’s shoulders. “Thank you for bringing him.”

“I’m sorry, did you say that _this_ is Drakken?”

The tactician looked up, grinning as Chrom gaped at the wyvern. “Yes, I did,” she agreed, slinging an arm across the dragon’s neck. 

“I didn’t...I thought you were exaggerating when you talked about how big he is.”

The wyvern snorted as he righted himself, lumbering forward to sniff at the prince’s tunic. Robin watched him, quirking one eyebrow in clear warning...but when the dragon’s maw began to open, she reached out, smacking him smartly on the nose. _“No,”_ she said firmly, cutting over the wyvern’s squawk of protest. “Princes are _not_ snacks. Mind your manners.”

“What the _hell_ is going on here!?” Basilio roared. The tactician jumped, and in the next instant Drakken’s wing stretched out to shield her while he turned to confront the supposed threat -- but as she rubbed the warm patch of scales between his horns, the dragon slowly relaxed his guard. “Why the _fuck_ is there a wyvern in my camp!?”

“He’s mine,” Robin admitted, leaning against the dragon as he pressed his cheek against her side. “Henry brought him--”

“And what’re _we_ supposed to do with it?” the west khan demanded, folding his arms as he glared at the massive beast.

“Well...do you have news about the upcoming battle?” the tactician asked, glancing at the dark mage. 

“Oh! Yeah! Uncle Mustafa said that Gangrel’s army is moving out in the morning, and so is your dad’s!” Henry chirped, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“When did Drakken last eat?”

“He had a big mountain goat last night! I fed him myself.”

“And how far did he fly?”

“We left as soon as I saw you writing.”

“No more than a few hours’ flight, so…” She pondered for a few moments, drumming her fingers along the wyvern’s horn. “He can chew over the bones of whatever we’re having for supper to tide him over, and he shouldn’t need more than some rubble and embers for a temporary nest and a canvas for cover. We can bring down my tent if we need to--”

“Keep your damn tent,” Basilio huffed. “Never thought I’d be puttin’ up a damn dragon for the night…we’ll see about getting somethin’ set up while you get dinner -- should still be some left, if you hurry. ...we can trust this thing not to eat anybody if you leave, can’t we?”

“He’ll be a good boy -- won’t you, Drakken?” she cooed, scritching the base of his horns and smiling at the pleasant rumble that vibrated through her. “Stay put now, and I’ll be back later.”

The dragon made a low sound, settling grudgingly on the bare ground and folding his wings, his tail coiled tight around his talons. Rubbing his snout affectionately, the tactician turned, linking one arm each with Chrom and Henry and heading for the center of camp. 

Fortunately for them all, the Feroxis still had plenty to go around; over a coarse, hearty bread and rich meat stew, Robin laid out the plans for the coming day, ignoring the half-hearted grumbling of the guardsmen and Henry both as she pressed the need to refrain from violence: the less blood shed, the better, she reminded the dark mage. 

As the activity around the fire began to wane, Henry leaned against her shoulder, snuggling close to escape the deepening chill. “You know, I’d been getting worried when you didn’t reply to my message,” she murmured, leaning her cheek against the dark mage’s unruly hair. “Usually you’re quick to respond at this hour. I should have known something was up.”

“Well, we wanted it to be a surprise,” Henry giggled. 

“You certainly succeeded there,” the tactician agreed. “But you should probably head back soon, since you don’t have a dragon to ride this time…”

“I don’t gotta!” the dark mage laughed. “Uncle Mustafa said I’m supposed to stay with you now!”

“...and you did steal a wyvern from camp, so here might be the safest place for you,” Robin mused. “I don’t suppose you brought your parchment with you?”

“Sure I did,” Henry said, peeking up at her. “But I’m here now. Why do you need it when you can just talk to me?”

“Oh, it’s not to send a message to you,” she chuckled. “It’s to send one to the Exalt of Ylisse. I left a page with her to keep her apprised of our progress.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because she asked. And she is Chrom’s older sister, so I’d like to reassure her that her siblings are doing well.”

“Your boyfriend has a sister?”

“Two, actually,” the prince remarked from her other side. 

“Who said he was my boyfriend?” Robin demanded, trying to ignore the warmth steadily building in her cheeks. 

“Am I not?” Chrom asked, feigning hurt. 

“That’s -- th-that’s not the point,” she mumbled, leaning her shoulder gently against his. 

“It’s pretty obvious,” the dark mage shrugged. “I mean, Tharja hates him.”

“How does that prove anything?” the prince asked. 

“Tharja hates _anybody_ Robin likes that’s not her,” Henry explained. 

“...that’s...actually a fair point,” the tactician admitted. 

“How does she feel about you, then?” Chrom asked, glancing toward the dark mage cuddling in against Robin’s side. 

“She puts up with me. Mostly ‘cause she knows I could hex her silly if I wanted,” he grinned. 

“...remind me not to get on his bad side,” the prince whispered. 

“Trust me, getting on Henry’s bad side takes a lot of work,” the tactician laughed. “Did you have any other clues, or…”

“Well, there was the whole thing with that sorcerer and how he dove into that lake after you and then carried you piggyback and how you were cuddled up all the time after that, too. But when we met up last time, you were standing together and talking and being really friendly and you don’t get that close to _anybody_ you don’t like -- you don’t even stand that close to _Tharja_ if you can help it, but you looked really happy about it, and if you weren’t, you woulda just moved.”

...gods, she hadn’t even admitted the feelings to _herself_ at that point. It was amazing how much she gave away to the people who knew her best...and who cared about her most. 

“Those are all good points,” Robin smiled. “But given that we’re heading out tomorrow, I’d like to let the Exalt know.”

“I didn’t bring any ink or anything, though,” the dark mage mumbled, digging about under his cloak and at last offering the stack of parchment. 

“That’s fine,” she assured him, tucking the sheaf into her coat’s inner pocket. “I have more than enough in my tent -- and if we’re to be ready at dawn, we should probably turn in.”

“You have a point,” Chrom sighed. “I’m guessing Henry will be bunking with you?”

“That’s probably best for everyone,” she chuckled, rising to her feet alongside the prince and the dark mage.

“Sleep well, then,” Chrom murmured, patting her shoulder. 

“Pleasant dreams,” the tactician smiled...and before he could turn away, Robin stretched up on the tips of her toes, touching a shy kiss to the prince’s lips (and pointedly ignoring Henry’s excited squeaking at her back). 

If the boldness of that gesture hadn’t colored her cheeks, Chrom’s delighted grin certainly would have. “I could get used to that,” he managed after a moment. 

“Let’s wait and see how tomorrow plays out before we make too many plans,” the tactician replied. “Get some rest, Chrom.”

Turning away from the fires, Robin took the dark mage’s arm and tugged him along through the dark rows of tents to her own. Showing him inside (where he immediately spotted the kitten and set to fussing over her), the tactician briefly excused herself, heading toward the gates where she’d left Drakken. As she’d promised, the wyvern remained exactly where she’d left him, watching the Feroxis attentively as they layered rubble loosely over live coals. When they stepped back, she patted the dragon’s neck, rousing him from his place and leading him to the makeshift nest, removing his saddle and stepping back to watch as he turned several times among the stones in search of the most comfortable place. As he finally settled in, she set his tack aside before dragging a heavy canvas over him to keep in some measure of the heat. The dragon crooned affectionately as she rubbed his nose, paying little mind to the guardsmen that delivered a pile of meaty thigh bones to the edge of his bed; only when she hefted one herself and offered it to him did he take any interest, accepting the treat with care before cracking it apart in search of the marrow...and with a final pat and a soft goodnight, she headed back to her tent. 

Henry had already made himself at home, snuggling down into the blankets and riling the cat by wriggling his fingers among the folds. Shaking her head fondly, the tactician settled at the desk and pulled the new parchment from her coat, removing the bottom-most page and writing a brief, reassuring missive to the Exalt. Once more weighing down the edges in anticipation of a morning message, Robin at last stood and made her way over to the bedroll, snuggling down with the dark mage. 

She’d done everything she could now. All her planning, all their preparations, had brought them to this. Drawing in a deep, slow breath, the tactician reached out as the kitten curled up on her chest, smoothing the fine fur with unsteady fingers. She needed to sleep if she intended to face the day at her best…

“I really like your boyfriend,” Henry mumbled through the dark, pillowing his head against her shoulder. “He’s really nice.”

“He is,” Robin agreed, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “And I really like him, myself.”

“Are you gonna marry him after tomorrow?”

She chuckled, stroking one of the kitten’s velvet ears. “I think it’s a little early to be thinking of that. Let’s at least wait to see what happens tomorrow. ...but...it is a nice thought,” she whispered. 

She hadn’t stopped to consider much of what would come _after_ the war. She knew some of the duties that awaited her, of course: the laborious process of restoring the ruined capital, rebuilding cities and towns and villages after the vicious in-fighting between rival factions...but she hadn’t thought of what _she_ might want. She’d barely allowed herself to indulge in personal fantasies for years, trapped within the cage of her father’s designs. But in the dark, she allowed her mind to wander to thoughts of a life with Chrom…

...and with her heart feeling warm and full, she finally found her rest. 

\-----

Anxiety still roused her before dawn. 

The Feroxis had already begun to stir and prepare for the march in the hazy gloom; to the tromp of bootsteps trudging off to various tasks and the song of whetstones sharpening blades, the tactician checked her parchment, smiling faintly at the neat line of script written beneath her own words that wished them well in the day ahead. Penning a brief response and promising to inform the Exalt when the battle ended, regardless of the outcome, Robin slipped out into the camp and off toward the wall where Drakken’s nest had been prepared. 

The wyvern was already awake, coiled tight beneath the his blanket and watching the goings-on with alert interest. As she approached, though, the dragon raised his head, shaking off the canvas and stretching his neck out to greet her with a familiar nudge and croon. Speaking softly as she worked, the tactician put aside the blanket, examining his wings and cleaning his talons before securing the gilt saddle in place. Though he wasn’t one of the ceremonial black wyverns favored by the Grimleal, she still thought that the gold ornaments looked striking against his rich red scales. 

Breakfast was a raucous affair, though the Feroxis’ bravado did little to steady her nerves. But while Henry chattered endlessly on about the kitten currently stealing morsels of meat from his plate, Chrom settled close beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. It had little effect on her anxiety...but she still leaned into that welcome comfort. 

As the sun rose over the eastern peaks, their forces prepared to march. Settling into the wyvern’s saddle with Henry behind her, Robin raised a short, shrill whistle; the dragon’s wings spread wide, his body tensing for an instant before he launched into the air, flapping hard to gain altitude while the khans’ soldiers hurried out onto the waste. Gods, she had missed this: the wind on her face, the terrain sprawling below...maps paled in comparison to the view astride a wyvern’s back. 

The Feroxis kept up a swift marching pace through the rolling plains, in spite of the thorny scrub. Once the sun climbed higher, warm currents helped to carry the airborne dragon as he wheeled and banked over the troop. And from that vantage, she watched the Plegian forces converging on the final battlefield, ordered battalions lifting their banners into the breeze as they came within sight of one another. 

Gods, there were so many of them. The figures on parchment did no justice to the harrowing reality of just how many lives hung in the balance. If she failed…

Her hands tightened on the gold-embossed saddle. She had to succeed. There were no other options. 

Silence settled over the waste, sunlight glinting off the Plegians’ helms as they turned their attention to the shadow in the sky. Steeling her nerves, Robin patted the wyvern’s neck, sending him spiraling down for a landing while the Feroxi forces crested the final hill overlooking the plain. As she dismounted, she saw a handful of soldiers raise their hands, touching their faces and chests in the familiar pattern of Grima’s Mark; and soon enough the movement spread on both sides of the field, in spite of Gangrel’s echoing snarl at his own troops. 

Patting Drakken’s cheek, Robin offered a brief nod to Henry before moving toward the center of the battleground. She heard the wyvern give a low rumble of protest, but thankfully did not hear the telltale crunch of scrub and gravel behind her. A quick glance confirmed that the dark mage was keeping the dragon in place -- and, to her surprise (and relief), she found Chrom just a step behind her as they crossed the field. 

The commanders of the Plegian forces strode out to meet them, keeping a wary distance from one another and each flanked by a guard of their own: Mustafa beside the king, Aversa behind the hierarch. “I see the Six-Eyed whelp has finally decided to show her face,” Gangrel sneered, drumming his fingers impatiently on the hilt of his Levin Sword. “I can’t begin to understand why these fools worshipped you, when all you ever did for them was speak a few pretty words once a year and then leave them behind to save your own skin. And then when you do come crawling in, it’s under the boot of those northern barbarians with an Ylissean sword in your back. Seems they know your mettle now, don’t they?”

The tactician offered a cool smile, folding her hands before her. “Say what you will. But now is the time to step down peacefully. If you do, I swear that no harm will come to you or your men.”

The man threw back his head and cackled. “ _Me? Surrender?_ To _you?_ And they call _me_ mad -- I’ll not go off to life in a dungeon while you let those Ylissean dogs ravage us again. What Plegia needs -- has needed for _years_ now -- is a king with the balls to stand up to those curs and put them in their place, not a whimpering bitch who’ll roll over and lick their boots. Or do you imagine you can _make_ me step down?” Gangrel taunted. “Turn that foreign army on your own people, show your _true_ colors?”

“I’ve no need to,” Robin shrugged. As the mad king rolled his eyes, the Plegian princess turned toward his army, lifting a hand toward them. “Lay down your arms!” she called. 

Gangrel’s laughter fell abruptly silent as Mustafa’s axe touched his throat. Behind him, the soldiers raised their own weapons, halting the generals preparing to rally to their king’s defense. “How _dare_ you,” Gangrel hissed, his hand shaking on the hilt of his sword. 

“How dare _I?”_ she repeated, her stern voice carrying across the waste. “You claim to be the king that Plegia needs, and yet you would wage war on our neighbors for no other cause than to satisfy your own grudges and lust for power. You care _nothing_ for the people of this land -- the proof is in the loyalty you’ve been forced to _buy_ with promises of power and wealth, or extorted with threats against these men and their families. You have _no right_ to lead this or _any_ land. And I will ensure that you pay justly for your crimes against these people.”

Hollow applause rang from the opposite side of their assembly, and a chill ran down Robin’s spine. “You have done well, my dear daughter,” the hierophant purred, narrowing the distance between them. “Now all that remains is to end this war.”

As the man reached toward her with a skeletal hand, the tactician stepped well out of reach. “You’re right,” she agreed. “That _is_ all that remains.”

Raising her hand toward the Grimleal forces, she watched as they turned their weapons on their own leaders, each one a close ally of the hierophant. The man turned in shock toward his troops...and then back to Robin, a caricature of dismay etched across his gaunt features. “What is this?” he asked. “After all I’ve done -- the care and effort I’ve lavished on you, the gifts I’ve given, the life I’ve spent for your benefit...why would you do this?”

A bitter laugh threatened to choke her as she met the hierophant’s eye. “You’ve done nothing for _me,_ ” she spat, rage trembling in her voice. “You’ve never done _anything_ for _me._ It was all for _your_ benefit, to advance _your_ schemes. All you’ve _ever_ cared about was yourself. Not me. And not these people. I _will not_ let you use Plegia or her people any longer.”

The man’s expression remained distantly troubled for another moment as he looked down at her. “Dear child,” he sighed. “Who has been telling you such lies?”

“They’re not lies,” she growled. “They’re the truths you tried to hide behind your momentary kindnesses.”

“I’ve done so much for you,” the hierophant insisted, stepping forward again. She retreated, maintaining the distance between them as Chrom edged closer. “I’ve given you the best of everything you could ever have want of, taught you well that you might rise to the throne you were born to take…” She matched his advance with care, forcing an air of calm as she kept him out of reach--

His expression twisted into a disgusted sneer. Robin lunged back--

Too slow. 

She hadn’t seen him draw the knife. But she felt its cold edge slice across the side of her neck an instant before blood gushed from the wound, arcing over the dry ground and burning her hands as she tried desperately to stop the flow pulsing in time with her heartbeat…

_“Robin!!”_

She heard, distantly, Henry’s panicked shout, underscored by Drakken’s furious roar. And far closer, Chrom’s voice in her ear as his arm wrapped around her, holding her up as her knees gave way. But all she could see was the obsidian blade in her father’s hand: the same one she had used every Grima’s Night since she was eleven, scoring a shallow cut in her palm to mix with the sweet oil marked on the stone floor...

Her father had first planned the ritual for Grima’s Night. 

Horror twisted her expression as she stared at the hierophant’s rictus grin. “Y-you needed my blood,” she gasped. 

“Grima’s blood is the beginning of everything,” the man replied. “His power will have no trouble healing such a minor wound, once He takes His place in the vessel I’ve prepared.”

“Dastard!”

She felt the prince’s arm tighten around her, his free hand pressing against her fingers to staunch the searing flow of blood that would not ebb, and every moment seemed more a struggle than the last to draw in breath, to keep her eyes focused…

She heard movement, all around her. Footsteps, shouts, as soldiers from every side charged toward the center of the field. 

And she saw the chilling smile on the hierophant’s face as he opened his spellbook, violet lightning crackling through his fingers. “You made quite the lovely speech. But I assure you, you’ll serve your people far better this way.”

Robin’s heart seized. But as her hand slipped down, bloody fingers clawing for the tome in her coat, **something** ignited in her breast, burning through the cold fear. The blinding light of the arcane circles pulsed around her, keeping time with her heartbeat while the wind swirled through her clothes...and as she flung her arm out, the gale howled across the bare ground, lifting the sorcerer off his feet and ripping him apart. 

Her vision wavered. A hollow chill seeped through her as the fire in her veins spilled down her neck to stain her shirt. 

And as darkness overtook her senses, she thought she heard Chrom call her name. 

\-----

Robin roused slowly, shivering as the cold gnawed at her bones. Her thoughts drifted, unfocused and confused; panic stirred in her chest as she reminded herself to hold her breath for fear of drowning in the dark waters...but she’d been breathing already, and the chill in her skin was not the same as the black lake. Tilting her head slightly, she winced at the uncomfortable pull of something in her neck--

“Ah -- you’re awake!!”

“...Lissa?” she mumbled, squinting through the dim lamplight at the hazy faces hovering around her. 

“Thank Grima,” her uncle’s voice rumbled, his callused hand smoothing the hair away from her forehead. “We were afraid we’d lost you.”

As Henry’s familiar embrace latched onto her shoulders and the kitten on her chest trilled and shifted, the memories began to seep back. The Plegian armies gathered at the waste. Confronting Gangrel and her father. The dripping dagger, a chill replacing the hot blood spilling down her neck to stain the dry Plegian soil. But if she was still conscious, then…

“Did we succeed?” the tactician croaked. 

“You did,” Mustafa replied, his voice soft and rife with pride. “Gangrel, those loyal to him, and your father’s councilmen have been chained and await transport back to the capital to stand trial. Aversa had to be detained...somewhat more forcefully, but she is being held and should present few problems, with Henry and Tharja’s hexes in place.”

“...and the hierophant?”

“Gone,” the warrior murmured. 

“Escaped?” Robin pressed. 

“Dead,” another voice corrected. 

The tactician struggled up onto her elbows as Khan Basilio strode over to her cot. “Glad to see you back among the living,” he chuckled. “Our medics weren’t sure for a while they’d be able to keep you here. That man wasn’t one for holding back, was he?”

“No,” she muttered as Henry clung tighter to her shoulders. “He never was.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Robin levered herself up further, displacing the kitten into her lap and pressing a hand to the bindings around her neck. She felt no grief at knowing her father was dead. If she were entirely honest with herself...she felt _relief,_ instead. Gods, what sort of monster was she, taking pleasure in the death of her own blood…

“It’s alright,” Mustafa said, touching her shoulder gently. “Plegia is safe now. And you can come home at last, Little Bird.”

 _Home._ She hadn’t seen it in so long...but even knowing what awaited, the endless duties, the reconstruction of the capital, the trials to oversee, she wanted to return. She’d missed it, the homesickness dogging her along every step of her journey. “When?” she breathed. 

“Soon,” her uncle replied. “...many of the Plegian soldiers have not seen their families in quite some time. And Gangrel imprisoned many unfairly during his time as king, who must be released back to their families. It would be for the best if...we set out immediately.”

“You sure don’t waste time, do ya?” the west khan grumbled. 

“Not when we’ve none to spare,” Mustafa sighed. 

“...I gotta respect that dedication,” Basilio admitted, rubbing his pate. “So long as nobody ends up dead, that is.”

“We’ll take care with her,” the warrior agreed. “Henry, can you gather Her Highness’ things?”

“H-hey, wait,” Lissa protested as the dark mage crept away. “You can’t just leave like that...y-you’re hurt, and my brother’s been worried sick about you. He only left a couple minutes ago, can...can I at least go get him before you run off?”

“Please?” Robin whispered, turning to her uncle...only for him to look down and away rather than meet her eye.

“Robin?” the princess pleaded, twisting the staff between her hands. 

The tactician mustered up a smile, her eyes burning as she fought back tears. She hated to admit that it was better this way...but it would be harder still to say goodbye if she had to see him again, and try to convince him that this was how it had to be. “I’m sorry, Lissa,” she breathed, easing her legs over the side of the cot and rising unsteadily to her feet with Mustafa’s aid. “But thank you for everything. I hope we meet again someday soon. ...I’ll miss you.”

“Do you really have to go?” the princess whimpered, hugging Robin gently. 

“I’m afraid so,” she replied, wrapping her arms around Lissa’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. If there was any other way, I…”

The tactician lifted an unsteady hand to scrub at her eyes as she stepped back, pausing long enough for the kitten to scale her sleeve and settle in her hood before making her way out of the healers’ tent, leaning heavily on her uncle’s arm for support. She must have been asleep for quite a while: the Plegian forces now camped in the foothills beyond the Longfort, their convoys packed and secure...simply waiting for the order to return home. 

Drawing in a wavering breath, Robin fought the tears back. She should have known better than to imagine that that the thoughts that warmed her through the night could become reality. Duty first, as it had always been. And soon...too soon, duty would be all she had. 

***

They’d spent three days camped along the border between Plegia and Ferox. Robin’s condition had been grave -- the injury itself minor according to the healers (once Lissa’s magic managed to stop the bleeding and the medics finished stitching the wound), but the blood loss nearly fatal. Chrom had listened to the Feroxis muttering amongst themselves in the quiet hours when everyone should have been at rest, debating her chances of survival...and in that unbearable silence at her bedside, he had prayed to any divine that might be listening to let their odds be wrong. 

The tactician had not died. She had not roused yet, but with every day her breathing seemed to steady and her heartbeat to strengthen. And that, at least, gave the prince heart. 

The Plegian soldiers, wary though they were of the Ylisseans, proved quite friendly: when Chrom needed to burn through the nervous energy building in his limbs, he wandered his way down to their camp, talking with them over their fires in the evenings, playing a few games (and losing more coin than he dared admit to Frederick over those colored glass beads they flicked about), and trading the sugar candies Lissa habitually shoved on him for all manner of things: spicy cinnamon drops, savory pistachios, and even a handful of beautiful green and blue glass baubles. 

They were kind people. Happy, relieved by the nearly bloodless battle, heartened by the promise of an age of peace under the Heart of Grima’s rule...and praying always for Robin’s swift recovery. Which the prince understood all too well. 

Making his way back to the infirmary, Chrom shouldered his way inside the tent, hoping for good news, _any_ news, _something--_

“Chrom…”

He stopped as Lissa moved to meet him at the entrance, hugging him tight. Looking around the dimly-lit space, his gaze settled on the empty cot where Robin had, just that morning, slept silently on. “...what happened?” he whispered, nearly choking on the words. 

“She left,” his sister whimpered. “W-with her uncle, he...he said th-they’re going back home.”

A sickening weight dropped into his stomach. “When?”

“A little while ago, j-just--”

“Do you know where they went?”

The princess pulled back, scrubbing her eyes as she looked up at him. “I…I-I think they went down to the camp, towa-ard where the dragons are…?”

“Thanks, Lissa,” he murmured, hugging her briefly before turning and hurrying off. The Plegian troops were already hard at work as he made his way toward the rocky hills, soldiers dismantling tents and loading convoy wagons for the journey home -- gods, he’d just been here, how could they move so quickly--

There. 

Striding toward the piles of rubble where the wyverns had made their temporary nests, the prince approached the Plegian berserker and the pale-haired figure leaning against a blood red dragon. Robin’s head came up at the sound of his footsteps…

...and he saw her sigh, looking down as she stroked Drakken’s horns. “Could you give us a few moments, Uncle?” she asked weakly. 

“...I’ll check to see how the travel preparations are coming,” Mustafa agreed. They waited, listening to the sound of his bootsteps retreating down the hill…

...and as the tactician stepped away from the wyvern, Chrom caught her in a close embrace. “You were just going to leave?” he breathed, clutching at the thick fabric of her coat. “Without a word, without...”

“...I wanted to,” she whispered, her voice hoarse as she lay her head against his shoulder. “I wanted to at least say goodbye, but…”

“You can’t.”

“I have to.” He could feel her trembling in his arms, and tightened his grip to steady them both. “The war is over, so there shouldn’t be more incursions from Plegian fighters. You have no more need of a tactician. And there’s so much to be done here, too much to wait for...for _anything,_ ” she mumbled, touching the bandages around her neck with the tips of her fingers.

“...then I’m coming with you.”

She laughed weakly, shaking her head. “You can’t. Emmeryn only gave the Shepherds leave to help me end this war. And that’s over now. You’d be defecting if you came any further south--”

“Then I’ll send the Shepherds back to Ylisse and join you myself.”

“Frederick will never stand for it,” she scoffed. “You’re the prince of Ylisse. You can’t just traipse off like that, especially not into Plegia. And especially not after me.” 

His head rose as realization dawned. “...yes, I can.”

“No, Chrom, you _can’t_ ,” she sighed, pulling away and leaning against her wyvern’s shoulder as Chrom stripped his gloves. “The people of Ylisse would be up in arms that the Plegians have taken their prince hostage, regardless of whether it’s true…”

Her voice trailed off as he removed his silver and lapis signet ring, taking her hand and slipping it onto her finger. She stared at it for a long moment, the faintest trace of color returning to her ashen face. “What happened to being patient?” she managed. 

“I told you,” he murmured, folding her hand between his. “I can be patient, so long as I can still see you. This...I know it’s sudden. But it’s my promise to you: I’ll wait as long as you need, as long as it takes, and...if you decide we’re better off as friends, I’ll accept that. But until then -- and even after, if it comes to that -- I want to be able to see you, and talk to you, and I can’t do that if there’s half a continent between us. I know that you have duties to fulfill, and I won’t stand in the way of that. But...I want to stand beside you, and support you, however I can.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” she whispered. 

“Every word,” he nodded. “I love you, Robin. And I vow to stay with you, as long as you need me. As long as you’ll have me.”

She shook her head, lifting her free hand to press against her eyes. “Chrom, this is madness--”

Something tugged at her sleeve. 

They both paused, looking over at Henry as he held out a piece of parchment. “Can you read this?” he asked. 

“What is it?” the tactician sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes before accepting the page. 

“I dunno,” the dark mage shrugged. “But she said I should give it to you and you’d know what to do.”

“Who did?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she unfolded the parchment. 

“Your boyfriend’s sister! The one you gave the other page to, remember?”

Shoring Robin up with an arm around her waist, Chrom helped to steady the sheet with his free hand, reading through the varied lines of script. 

We’ve arrived at the border between Plegia and Ferox. Everyone’s safe and doing well. According to Henry, the armies will set out tomorrow at dawn, so if all goes well the war will be over before the next sunset. 

I’m happy to hear from you. Best of luck in the day ahead. My thoughts and prayers go with you and yours, Robin, and may you have success in the trials to come. 

Thank you, Your Grace. With any luck, we’ll be able to settle things swiftly and without bloodshed, but I’ll write with word as soon as I can once the fight is over. 

Ar yu Krom’s sistr?

I am. Is this Henry?

Hi!

Is Robin alright? It’s been several days and she never sent word, I’ve been quite concerned. 

Bad stuf hapend. But we wun! Robin got hurt and just wok up and now Unkl sez we haf tu lyv. 

Do you know if my brother and sister are alright? 

They’re fayn! Lisa’s bin ryly nays tu Robin and taykin kayr ov her and Krom iz ther al the taym. Robin’s gona be sad wen we lyv. Unkl sez Krom kan’t kom.

Give this to Robin, alright? She’ll know what to do, and I think it will help. 

By order of Exalt Emmeryn of House Ylisse, Prince Chrom of House Ylisse is hereby named as the Ylissean ambassador to Plegia, and is hereupon charged with conducting talks with the ruler of Plegia to open discussions between the halidom and her neighbor, on topics including but not limited to trade agreements and the transport of necessary aid and supplies for the restoration of Plegia. 

A smile broke across Chrom’s face as he pulled Robin closer, watching the tactician read the message a second time. “So, then,” he murmured, ducking his nose into her hair. “I think you were saying something about how this is madness…?”

“Maybe _I’m_ the one going mad,” she breathed. “This can’t be real. ...I’m never going to be able to repay your sister.”

“Emm’s always said that all she ever wanted for her family was their happiness,” the prince murmured. “Do you still think you’re just a ‘friend’?”

That, at last, made her smile, touching a hand to her throat as helpless laughter took the place of her tremors. And as Chrom held her close, Robin lifted her head, catching him in a warm kiss that set his heart aflame. 

\-----

“Are you sure this was a good idea?” Chrom asked, keeping a close eye on the wyvern hatching toddling around their daughter’s seat. The cat sitting politely on the table next to Robin was one thing (even if he could swear he saw her sneak out a paw to grab something on occasion), but he still wasn’t entirely convinced that a dragon was the best pet for a seven-year-old. 

“I don’t see why not,” Robin laughed, tearing off a chunk of soft flatbread and wiping the sweet preserves off their son’s face. Morgan laughed, his chubby hands grabbing for the bread and stuffing it into his mouth before she could protest. “Lucina’s a year older than I was when I got Drakken, after all, and I turned out just fine. At least she picked a raider instead of a bruiser.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing. I’ve _seen_ raiders. They could level a house.” Though, to be fair, he’d seen them mostly at work raising buildings during the reconstruction efforts, rather than tearing them down. 

“And just imagine what one could do if someone tried to harm our daughter,” she smiled, pretending not to notice Lucina sneaking morsels off her plate to the dragon peeping by her side. 

“Right now I’m just imagining her nipping someone’s ankles,” Chrom chuckled. “She’s not too impressive just yet.”

“Father, can Melady come with us when we go to see Aunt Emmeryn and Aunt Lissa?” their daughter asked, trying not to giggle as the wyvern licked her fingers. 

He considered for a moment, casting a sly wink in his wife’s direction as Lucina offered her most pleading puppy eyes. “...I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he grinned. “But you’d best finish your breakfast, we need to leave soon if we’re going to make for Grima’s Night.”

“We still have plenty of time,” Robin laughed as their daughter scrambled to comply, devouring her meal only slightly less messily than her baby brother. 

In short order they cleared the platters and, pausing briefly to change Morgan into something less sticky and bid farewell to the tabby queen of Plegia Castle (who was already settling in for a nap), the family made their way to the bustling courtyard. Mustafa awaited them, inspecting the small troop of wyverns and their riders ready to carry them east. “I take it you had a nice meal,” he chuckled as Robin moved to mount her own wyvern, licking his thumb and scrubbing a bit of syrup off of Morgan’s pudgy cheek. 

“Quite,” Chrom agreed, handing the toddler up to his mother while Lucina held her own wyvern hatchling up for Drakken’s approval. “He especially enjoys wearing it.”

Mustafa laughed warmly as the prince took his wife’s hand, settling comfortably behind her in the saddle. Calling Lucina over, the warrior lifted her up to her father, where she and the dragon in her arms both snuggled comfortably in for the ride. 

“Is everything ready, Uncle?” Robin asked. 

“Indeed, Your Majesty. We ride on your command,” he agreed, pulling himself up into the saddle of his own waiting wyvern.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” the queen laughed, patting Drakken’s neck. The wyvern’s wings spread wide, and Morgan and Lucina both shrieked in giddy delight as the dragon launched into the air, spinning into the sky on the warm updrafts until the whole of Plegia’s now thriving capital stretched out below them. And as the procession banked out over the glittering dunes, they raised a ballad into the wind to to carry them on, toward the borders they shared and the warm reunions that awaited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so (very belatedly) ends this little jaunt through the Outrealms of possibility for this Chrobin Week entry. Thank you all so much for your interest, your enthusiasm, your encouragement, your support, and most of all your patience through this wild ride: every hit, every kudo, and every comment mean more than I can say, and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read through this. I loved every minute of writing this story, and I'm so glad I could share it with all of you!


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